


A Red-Dusted Planet

by onewasturning



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Australia, Fluff, M/M, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-10 21:51:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 38,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5602360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onewasturning/pseuds/onewasturning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Harry finally makes it to the edge of the pool where Louis is almost curled up in on himself laughing in the shallow water. He wants to feel annoyed, his competitive side rankled at the </i>unfair<i> and </i>unjust<i> tactics used by his opponent, but it’s like— </i></p>
<p>  <i>The light refracts off the water and moves across Louis’ skin, darkening the ink of his tattoos, and he looks beautiful, dazzling, still that god laughing down on all the destruction he's caused. And Harry’s heart is caught somewhere in his breathless chest, like it’s become tangled amidst the veins and arteries whilst trying to make room for wet boys on warm, summery days.</i><br/> </p>
<p>Or, a one-night stand in a small town in Australia turns into a weekend that Harry could've never predicted with a boy he may never forget.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Red-Dusted Planet

**Author's Note:**

> This AU is set during the ‘build up’, the period of transition between the dry season and the wet season in the Northern Territory, Australia. 
> 
> Thank you to darling [Anna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/annaroserae/works) for putting up with my endless whinging and for trying to put right what was quite wrong.
> 
> Please see endnote for TW relating to the semi-public sex tag, if you so wish.

A small girl looks at Harry over the top of the steamed counter of the food truck as he fumbles through the list that Leigh-Anne had requested.

“I’ll take four of the…the satay things. Yes, the chicken. Actually, two chicken and two beef. And then two of the dim sims. No, not the homemade ones. And six of the poa pia. Is that how you say it? No? Yes?”

The people behind him, standing in the long queue, shuffle in a way that Harry can only think of as impatiently. Between the hot counter and the heat beating on their backs, he can’t really blame them.

“Okay, never mind. No no, wait, I still want them! With the dipping sauce, please. Eight fifty, right? Right, okay. Cheers.”

Slipping his wallet into the back pocket of his shorts, Harry picks up the paper bags and flashes a quick smile at the young girl, who’s already moved on to the next customer, then turns to angle his way through the crowds and towards the coarse-sanded beach in search of Leigh-Anne.

They’ve been in the central north of Australia for nearing on two weeks now, posted by their bosses at Syco Productions to scout for locations, and to do some preliminary photography for a war drama that the BBC and ABC are collaborating on. Most days have been spent being driven outside of Darwin, searching for outback landscapes, but they’ve managed to make good use of their time in the city. Tonight, the Mindil Beach market is buzzing, and the smell of fried, spiced Asian food and icing dusted poffertjes filters through the air amidst the salt and slight tang of sweat. If there’s one thing Harry’s learnt since arriving in the tropics, it’s that there’s always the slightest smell of sweat everywhere, to the point where he wonders if the locals don’t even notice it anymore.

He squeezes past a man in board shorts, sidesteps a child who’s a second away from bawling about a dropped ice-cream cone, and pauses for a moment to admire how a tanned, well-muscled busker is managing to swallow a fiery poker in this overwhelming heat. People keep telling him that it’s the dry season, and that twenty-five degrees is actually quite cool and a completely appropriate temperature to break out the cardies. He tells them that his hair — currently puffed up in a halo of near untameable brown curls — vehemently disagrees, and that this weather is enough to send most people back home to hospital for heatstroke. 

The heat here is so much worse than summer in London; it sticks everywhere, pressing down deep into his skin and settling heavy at the bottom of his lungs. Some mornings he can barely see the point of showers. It seems that two seconds after he’s stepped outside, he’s already covered in a fine sheen of sweat, which doesn’t dry out until a good twenty minutes of wandering around the one overcrowded shopping centre that exists here. Unfortunately, the stark transition from horrid, sweltering warmth to blessed air-conditioning has perplexed his poor sinuses on more than one occasion. Runny noses have ruined the joy of cold air.

Thankfully, this evening seems better than most. There’s a cool breeze coming in off the Arafura Sea, and the setting sun means that the suffocating heat has abated somewhat. He walks down the boardwalk, grating particles of speckled sand getting between his feet and flip-flops, and spinifex grass reaching across the dunes to brush at his bare legs. As he looks out along the beach, over clusters of families walking their dogs and kids wading in the shallow water, his gaze finds Leigh-Anne up near the casino, sitting on the colourful batik sarong that she’s been wearing everywhere, sunglasses still perched high on her nose.

“Took you long enough,” is all she says when Harry ambles over, reaching out for the proffered food. 

He hands over the paper bags before settling down beside her on the sand cross-legged, wiping his hands on the front of his shorts. She grabs the container of poa pia eagerly, practically drowning one in the sweet sauce, and groans in content when she finally bites in, toes curling in the sand.

“Yeah, well, there was a line,” Harry says, taking a poa pia before she eats them all. “There’s _always_ a line.”

Leigh-Anne looks at him over the top of her sunglasses, an eyebrow raised. Harry can’t count the number of times he’s had that same exact look levelled at him over the past fortnight. “That’s only because you’re too polite to say anything when someone pushes in front of you. You’re such a pushover, Harry.”   
“I am not,” Harry says around a mouthful. “I just don’t like upsetting people, is all. Nothing wrong with that.”

The heat from the food burns his tongue, but he battles on chewing, even as Leigh-Anne’s eyebrow inches up her forehead. 

Before them, the tide is slowly coming in, and it pushes the kids out of the shallows with gently rolling waves, shrieks and laughter pervading the air like ocean spray. Harry fixes his stare on the foaming white crests, and how with each inward sweep they wash away any evidence that Jess really does love Tim, or that Cassie says hi, and all the other meaningless scrawlings and castles in the sand. If Harry were more cynical, they’d seem like silly things in their transience. But then, so is their time here, really.

“Yeah, okay,” Leigh-Anne says drily, waving a satay at him and drawing his attention once more. “Nothing wrong with that at all. I mean, look where that’s got you, yeah?” She holds up greasy fingers as she begins to tick off his faults. “One, letting a freeloader stay in your home even though you don’t even like them. Two, agreeing to take this project when you really wanted the Spain job. And three, travelling halfway around the world trying to avoid a certain brown-eyed someone just so that you don’t ‘upset them’.”

Harry pushes her lightly in the shoulder. He wants to push her head in the sand, really, but she’s mostly right. 

“Hey, I’m here because I want to be here. I would’ve taken either job without complaint,” he says pointedly, meeting her gaze. “And we’re both here for work, in case you’ve forgotten. Who was that you went home with last night, anyway? Surely not the same guy from Saturday?”

Leigh-Anne merely flashes a cheeky grin, and her lips are shiny under the dimming sun. “I’m allowed to have fun. The boys were fit. Besides, not all of us have friends to pine over back home, or hang ups that prevent us from living perfectly normal, functioning lives.”

“Oh, shove off,” Harry grumbles. It could only ever be half-hearted though, what with the sun going down before them, Leigh-Anne smiling content beside him, and salt and spice on his tongue.

With his aggravation disintegrating into a grin, they eat in silence, watching the families gathering along the foreshore, and listening to the noise from the market filtering over the dunes. The sun casts itself vivid upon the water, as crimson streaks inch across the sky, lacing it in a filigree of running clouds and ember, before melting down towards the edge of the horizon, painting the shallow waves red and black and gold. And the weighted warmth, mellowing with the wind.

“Isn’t it incredible?” he says, with a slight intake of breath, reverent, and Leigh-Anne just nods with a gratified sigh beside him.

He raises his fingers, L shapes turned into his absent camera, squinting his eyes and memorising this moment for later — saving it as a keepsake, as evidence, that not everything remains at a standstill.

*

“And that’s where the old Uranium mines were,” Trish, one of their guides, is saying, gesturing to a turn off on the left-hand side of the road, dust-covered signs warning for radiation dotted along the path.

Her husband, Jai, is in the driver’s seat, steering them down a dirt road a couple of hours outside of the city, tyres kicking up clouds of red dust around them and rocks hitting the side panelling of their Land Rover Discovery. They’ve been at it since early morning, veering southeast and dodging roadkill, and trying to view as many last minute locations as they can before they have to head off the following Monday. 

Right now, the sun is high in the sky, beating its way through a breeze and a smattering of streaky white clouds, and Leigh-Anne has her head stuck out the window, her Canon EOS clicking as she takes shot after shot. The wide-brimmed hat she’s picked up has fallen down her back, and loose strands of her hair are whipping in the wind, and she looks stunning, beautiful, so naturally in her element. Her skin is soft and warm under the harsh light of the sun, and Harry feels like a sodden, sweaty mess beside her. His half-open shirt is already damp under the pits and at the base of his spine, and his own bun is falling apart in a riotous frizz. This morning after his shower he’d looked into the mirror of the hotel bathroom only to find another goddamn pimple forming along his hairline. He’s just grateful that he’s managed to tan a golden brown instead of that brilliant shade of red he’s seen most of the pale European backpackers sporting.

“Now, we’re going to keep on for a bit, and then we’ll hit that open gully that we were telling you about,” Trish says, turning around in the passenger seat. “It’s a bit of a steep one and we’ll probably have to punch in the diff lock once we hit the dip. But don’t worry, Haz, you won’t be dying today.” 

She grins at him, her freckled nose scrunching in glee, and he grimaces back, thinking back to the incident the other day where he may or may not have screamed as they bloody _dove_ down a forty-five degree ridge and into a shallow stream just out of Edith Falls.

Sure enough, the road converges ahead of them and Harry finds himself clinging onto the door handle as the car edges its way down the fifteen-metre stretch, not three metres across and with a sharp drop on Leigh-Anne’s side straight down into the rocky gully.

“Oh my God, Harry, _look_ ,” Leigh-Anne says beside him, body still hanging dangerously out the window. “Are you seeing this? This would be perfect for the camp. Look at how the trees shade the entrance over there.”

“Yep. Incredible,” Harry says, trying to focus on the back of Trish’s head, and not on the way the Land Rover lurches over the path.

“Only a bit more,” Jai says, and Harry grips on a little tighter. By the time they’ve finished descending the last few metres and pulled up into a small clearing, his knuckles are white and his heart is thundering.

His breath leaves him in a small whoosh when Jai puts the car into neutral, and he takes a moment to convince his heart that they’re now on safe, solid, flat ground. On slightly shaking legs he falls out of the car, squeaking door closing with a clap behind him, only to find that Leigh-Anne has already hiked up a large rock, hand over her eyes to shield the sun and surveying the gully like an explorer. Her new Timberlands are scuffed at the front, khaki shorts dusted, and her open flannel shirt is billowing a little in the tunnelling wind. Harry takes a few quick snaps of her with his own camera strapped around his neck, until Leigh-Anne realises what he’s doing and sticks her tongue out.

“Come up here, you wimp!” she says, moving along a bit so that Harry can share the small space she’s occupying. “Take a look!”

He pushes his sunglasses down from atop of his head, slings his camera behind him on its strap, and scrambles up, gratefully taking Leigh-Anne’s hand. She winds an arm around his waist, steadying him while Trish yells out humiliating, and not in the least sarcastic, encouragements from below.

When he finally looks down, ignoring the tingling in his feet, he’s greeted with a panoramic view of the gully around them, flooded with bright sunlight and burning red and gold. The ghost gums and ironbark trees stand tall around the edges, pale green waxy leaves darkening the shadows across the scrub, and the rocky ground is broken up by a small creek that probably wore down the whole gully itself. 

Though the gully is still, Harry can spot a goanna sunning itself below them, unperturbed by their presence, and hear the chittering of birds around them over the buzz of insects, the sound echoing off crumbling rock faces. A kite circles through the almost cloudless sky above them, brown wings unmoving in its seamless glide, and Harry has to take a breath again, as if he can inhale the memory and keep it buried inside, somewhere beneath his ribs. It feels so untouched. Even drilled through and used as a war ground, and with the danger of encroaching cities, there are still vast spaces that carry on as they have thousands of years before, idyllic in their isolation.

He curls a hand around Leigh-Anne’s shoulder, squeezing briefly and grinning at her upturned face.

“It’s brilliant, right?” she says. “It’ll be hell getting people down here, and we’ll have to get rangers on site so we don’t disturb the land or anything, but this is it, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “This is it.”

They take a few more snaps then make their way down, Harry only ripping one new hole in his jeans, before walking around the perimeter, noting down the terrain and area perimeter. He can see it easily, the angles and direction, the shaping and framing of scenes, and how the land itself will become the biggest support, underscoring every word and defining every movement.

By the time they’re finally done, the sun has already begun its downward climb, and Trish and Jai are perched on the bonnet, drinking cans of coke from the esky.

“You got all you need?” Jai says as they return, squinting down at them.

“Yep! I think we’re good,” Leigh-Anne says, looking at Harry for confirmation, and he nods, slinging his camera around.

“Yeah, we’re good to go.”

They bundle back into the car, the upward drive no less traumatic that the one down — except maybe even more so because they’re driving in reverse, no room to turn. Harry doesn’t see his life flash before his eyes, but that might only be due to the fact that his eyelids are pressed so tight that his vision becomes no more than a mess of black-and-yellow dots.

And then, soon enough, they’re back on the rough dirt road, then onto the Stuart Highway, heading back into the city. 

Even though it’s the capital, Darwin still feels like it’s hardly more than a cluster of suburbs, and the central district consists mostly of three main streets and an esplanade looking over the sea. It’s one of the reasons they’ve chosen to shoot here; it’s isolated, but there’s still that contrast between the vibrant and lush coastline and the desert bushland. The other reason is purely economic; the Lord Mayor had been happy to negotiate, especially with the boost to tourism that would hopefully follow.

They drive back in companionable silence, Trish pointing out sights every now and then, roads to old war airstrips and bunkers and random crocodile sightings, while the easy listening station radio plays a mix of ACDC, Foo Fighters, Chili Peppers, and what appears to be the Dawson’s Creek soundtrack. Leigh-Anne’s already flicking through the pictures she’s taken, jotting down their numbers, ever the consummate professional. Harry’s only been doing this for a few years, but he’s never worked with anyone so genuinely in love with their job as Leigh-Anne. There’s never been anyone so willing to stay back late nights or take on extra research, and with this being their third trip away together location scouting, he can only hope that there’s a dozen more to come. 

Leigh-Anne catches him looking and grins, turning off the camera. “Want to head out tonight? Celebrate a job well done?”

“Sounds good to me,” Harry says. “Could do with a cold beer and a steak.”

“We’re going to make an Aussie out of you yet,” Trish says, winking into the rear-view mirror, and Harry laughs.

“You’re welcome to join us. We’d love to pay you back for your hospitality,” he says, but Trish is already shaking her head.

“Sorry, sweetheart, we’ve got to take the ankle biters back off Mum, they’ve been driving her up the wall.”

“They can come, too,” Harry says immediately, and Leigh-Anne snorts.

“They really can’t. They’re terrors as it is when we try to feed them at home,” Trish says apologetically.

“Probably for the best,” Leigh-Anne says. “This one has been known for attempting to kidnap small children. Better keep them away if you plan on ever seeing them again.”

“ _Hey_ ,” Harry says, but Leigh-Anne ignores him.

“You’ve been so good to us, though, thank you,” she says, leaning through the middle of the car to squeeze Trish and Jai on their shoulders. “If you’re ever in London, don’t hesitate to hit us up, yeah?”

Jai glances up in the rearview mirror and smiles, small and warm. “Not sure that’s ever going to happen, darl, but you know where to find us, if you ever decide to come back for a visit.”

They get dropped off on the Esplanade near their hotel and exchange goodbyes, and Harry pulls Trish into a bear hug, lifting her in the air until she yells at him to put her down, and shares a very manly handshake with Jai.

“I can’t believe we’re heading back already,” Leigh-Anne says with a sigh as they wave them off, car cruising away against the ocean backdrop, and Harry lets her slump against him, wrapping his arm around her shoulder.

“Hey, we’ve still got the weekend, right?” Harry says, cuddling her close. “We’ll make it a good one, promise. And who knows, maybe we’ll be back next year for the shoot.”

Leigh-Anne squints up at him, the setting sun still glinting off the buildings around them and into her eyes. “That’s what I like about you, Styles. Always looking on the bright side.”

“Really? Thought it was my dashing good looks and stellar wit,” Harry says, winking, and Leigh-Anne pushes him off with a groan.

They head back to the hotel, salt wind touching at their backs, and insects creeping up on them, sweeping in from the mangroves lining the shore. They make a wide circle around a flurry of small sandflies in their path, and Leigh-Anne says, nose wrinkling in disgust and hands flailing around her, “You know what I won’t miss? Being eaten to death by bugs.”

On cue, a stray insect darts towards them, and Leigh-Anne shrieks and Harry yelps, and they run inside like they’ll be soon swarmed in vengeance.

*

They have a late dinner at a restaurant in the city, and Harry determinedly doesn’t think about the impending juice cleanse he’s going to have to go on. Their steaks come out in fat-dribbling perfection, all pink and juicy on the inside and criss-crossed with blackened grill lines on the outside, and he hears Leigh-Anne swear under her breath when she takes a bite of her roasted pumpkin salad, goat’s cheese smearing her lips.

When their stomachs are pressing tight at their waistbands, they take a walk through the streets, letting their meal settle and enjoying the gentle buzz of the city. Like the night before, the humidity’s dropped, and there’s a cool edge to the wind slipping through the folds of Harry’s shirt.

It’s a Friday and the city’s livelier than they’ve ever seen it, music spilling out of pubs along the main street, and girls in high heels and short skirts hobbling along the footpaths like herds of giggling gazelles. It’s such a lovely night, the words almost out of Harry’s mouth, just on the tip of his tongue, until a guy staggers in front of them and then proceeds to vomit onto a fern, his mates laughing behind him.

“Charming,” Leigh-Anne says, scrunching her nose as they move themselves along. “It’s not even past 11:00. Do you want to head back?”

They stop at the curb, letting a group of girls pass them, squealing in disgust over the mess of vomit, and Harry squints at her face in the amber glow of the streetlights. Her lips are tugged into a frown, and her arms hug her body, despite the heat.

“You okay?” he asks instead, voice raising a bit to be heard over the thrum of music.

She shrugs, saying, “It’s just that I’m still feeling a little melancholy, yeah?” 

They’re pushed forward as another group flounder past, singing drunkenly along to the song playing from the pub. 

“Who would’ve thought that a little princess like me would’ve loved being stuck out in the middle of the desert?”

“All the more reason to go out and have some fun, yeah?” he says, and she allows him to draw her into a hug. “Also it’s not exactly the middle of the desert. My hometown’s a lot smaller than this.”

“Close enough,” she mumbles into his chest.

They’re taking up too much space on the footpath, and it’s too sticky for a proper hug. But it’s a Friday, and the city is relaxed in its warmth and the night is still young enough for possibility.

“Besides,” Harry says, knocking a knuckle at her chin, “you look too pretty to go home now.”

Leigh-Anne sighs. “That _is_ true,” she says, pulling away to look up at him. “Do you want to go to that club that Trish was talking about?”

Harry furrows his brow. “Do you mean Throb?”

“I can’t get over how they name things here,” Leigh-Anne says. “Who calls a suburb Fannie Bay? Christ.”

“It’s all about character,” he says. He tilts his head back up the road, somewhere toward brighter neon lights. “Shall we?”

“Yeah,” Leigh-Anne says. “Why not?”

*

After paying the paltry five-dollar fee to get in, Leigh-Anne and Harry enter the club’s retro night and are immediately faced with rainbow lights streaming down from the ceiling, while a dubstep version of Roxette’s _Listen to Your Heart_ tackles their eardrums, the bass like a second heartbeat pulsing through them. There’s a show on the stage, and many people are sitting down to watch, spread out at the bar and on tables and furry red divans with rapt attention.

“Christ, look at them go,” Leigh-Anne says over the music, and Harry watches as the people on stage in brilliant full drag lip sync their way through the song, surrounded by go-go dancers with fluorescent glow paint all over their toned arms and abs and muscled thighs.

He shouts, “You know, I don’t I’ve been to a drag show since I was in uni!” He has to bend over Leigh-Anne in order to be heard.

“You mean since you were _in_ one,” she says, looking up at him. “I’ve seen your Facebook, Styles. I’ve seen you rocking a wig and glitter body paint.”

“That was one time!” Harry says in mock protest, before grinning slyly. “One fabulous, _incredible_ time.”

Leigh-Anne shouts something back through a burst of laughter, but it’s lost somewhere in the beat of the music and the thrum of energy. Around them, the crowd is loud and appreciative, cheering on the performers, and when the dancers pose as the song ends, all legs and touch and diva-quality attitude, they break into raucous applause.

The DJs transition into the next song, what appears to be a remix of _Love is a Battlefield_ , and when Harry points towards the bar, Leigh-Anne nods and squeezes through the jostling mass to get them drinks.

A round of shots later and with frothy cocktails in hand, they make their way to the edge of the milling crowd, dancing bodies moving to the rhythm of _If I Could Turn Back Time_. To their right is a hen’s night — women wrapped in pink boas and drinking through penis straws and laughing hysterically, and who are, Harry thinks, exactly the right amount of completely plastered. And to their left, illuminated in blinks of light, Harry spots a group of guys. Their backs are turned except one, who peers over his friends’ shoulders, trying to subtly look at them over the rim of his beer bottle.

Harry leans close to Leigh-Anne’s ear and tips his cocktail in the direction of the faux-hawk in slim-cut jeans. “Think someone’s got their eye on you.”

“Not to state the obvious, but we’re in a gay club, Haz,” Leigh-Anne says, not even bothering to look. “Are we sure it’s not you he’s checking out?”

“Positive,” Harry says. “Not sure he even sees me. I’ve been staring at him for a full minute and he hasn’t even blinked.”

Leigh-Anne allows herself to be turned around slowly, and sure enough, when she catches his eye, he nods, raising his drink.

“Not bad,” Leigh-Anne says appraisingly, before returning the gesture. “Do you mind—”

“Go on, you,” Harry says, nudging her. “You know I can entertain myself. I won’t wait up.”

Leigh-Anne winks at Harry and then slinks over, and Harry sees the flush on the guy’s face darken under the neon lights with every sway of her hips.

“Go get ‘em,” Harry says in a solitary toast. He downs the remainder of his drink and then heads back through the crowd to the bar for round three — and maybe something a little different.

*

There’s a pounding in his chest, music bleeding into his skin and bass pulsing. The night has worn on in a haze of inhibition, and Harry’s hair is down and his shirt’s almost completely unbuttoned, and there are trails of sweat along his hairline and dipping into the lines of his chest. His head drops back with the beat, face upturned to the rainbow lights above, and it seems each flash, each spark across his skin, ignites the alcohol burning its way through his veins.

Earlier, he’d danced with dark and broody near the bar, and then one of the go-go dancers, all muscled and tan and pretty. Now, there’s a blond pressed against his back, swaying them altogether too slowly for the thudding bass line of _Summer Rain_.

“I’m to—” Harry says, then shakes his head, starting again even as the blond laughs somewhere near the nape of his neck. “I’m _going_ to get another drink. I think.”

“You think, eh?” the guy says.

He spins Harry around by the hips, and for a moment the room tilts precariously and his ankles twist in his boots. Lights blur and then slip back into focus, and when Harry blinks up, the guy is still holding his hips, amusement in his eyes.

“Yes. I think,” Harry agrees belatedly, and the guy lets out another laugh, white teeth glowing green then pink then yellow under the neon. Stepping back on slightly imbalanced feet, Harry manages to dip into a small, dignified curtsy, saying, “Thank you for this dance. It’s been a pleasure.” 

The guy, to his credit, bows back with, “The pleasure was all mine.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Harry agrees.

He moves through the swarm of people around him and back to the overcrowded bar, where he waits patiently at the end, tapping his fingers against the bar top, watching person after person get served ahead of him, before flitting back onto the floor.

Throughout the night he’s caught glimpses of Leigh-Anne, grinding and loose with the faux hawk. His puppy dog eyes diligently follow her, entranced by her every move, and drunken Harry thinks sober Harry would agree that that’s just how it should be. He thinks he might see her there at the edge of the dance floor, when he’s jostled to the side by warm bodies and loud laughter.

There are a few girls from the hen’s party next to him, and one’s bent half over the bar with her stiletto heels teetering on the footrest, shouting out a list of drinks to an overwrought bartender, while the rest of them call out ridiculous suggestions.

“Stella!” one of them bellows, and the others throw their arms up suddenly, echoing “ _Stel-la!_ ” exuberantly, and then somewhere behind them, the rest of their group follows suit, reminding Harry of a drunken Marco Polo.

They head back to the floor laden with enough alcohol to blitz a ship, and soon after, they’re replaced by a couple, and then a guy wearing fluorescent pink hot pants, and the rhythm of Harry’s fingers on the bar top slowly sharpens to a staccato as he gradually sobers.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been standing there when a voice startles him, shouting over the din. 

“Are you all right?”

Looking down, Harry sees a boy standing there, tanner and prettier than any of the go-go dancers, with a smirk on his pretty tan face and a loose white shirt falling down over his pretty tan collarbones.

“What do you mean?” Harry says, leaning closer, easily shifting into his space.

“It’s just, you’ve got something,” the boy says, reaching up to press a thumb between Harry’s eyebrows, the skin wrinkling around the indent it makes. “Right _there_.”

“Is this a come one?” Harry says, bemused. “Because I think— I think I’m too drunk to get it.”

The boy laughs, taking his hand away. “It’s not a line,” he says, voice still too loud despite their proximity. “You were just frowning, all big and pouty. Thought your eyebrows were going to fuse together or summat.”

Harry gives a sheepish smile. “I was just waiting for a drink. Hard to push in. Feel like I’ve been standing here forever.”

“Right,” the boy says with a nod. And then, with a quick, slippery efficiency that Harry can’t quite comprehend, he’s leaning over the bar and calling out to one of the bartenders, voice carrying. “Can I have a rum and coke, and a—”

He looks expectantly at Harry, and Harry’s surprised enough that he says the first thing that comes to mind. “A vodka orange.”

The boy grins at him, eyes crinkling. “And a vodka orange for tall, dark and gorgeous over here,” he shouts.

He slides down from where he’d propped himself up, moving close enough that Harry can feel the heat of his body through the dim and the beat. From here, Harry can see the shadow along his jawline and the deep creases by his eyes, which have gone murky under the lights. There’s a stain near his collar, and he seems to be bouncing a little on the balls of his feet to the music, and when the moment seems to stretch on, Harry finds him looking up at him with something akin to anticipation.

“That just then was actually a come on, in case you didn’t catch it,” he says with a wink, and Harry lets out an unexpected bark of laughter.

“Yeah, no, I managed to get that,” he says, and it’s then that he really takes in the accent; remembers all at once where he is. “I take it you’re from my side of the pond?”

“Yeah, there’s a few of us around it seems,” the boy says, leaning back against the bar, apparently oblivious to the tacky surface and the people still pushing around them. “Doncaster, born and bred. Yourself?”

“Cheshire, originally. But now a long-time Londoner,” Harry says, and the boy nods, eyes flicking over him, and it feels hot and slightly appraising, and like maybe he shouldn’t have another drink.

The bartender passes along their drinks, but while Harry is reaching for his wallet, the boy slaps down a note on the bar top.

“Oh, you don’t have to—” Harry beings to say, but the boy just shakes his head and hands him his glass.

“Don’t worry—” He pauses, raising an eyebrow.

“Harry,” Harry supplies wryly, and there’s a smile on his face despite himself.

“ _Harry_ ,” Louis says, grinning back. “I’m Louis. And I’m sure there’ll be plenty of opportunity for you to return the favour.”

Harry laughs, raising his glass. “I’m sure there will be.”

Louis raises his own in return and they clink together, drink slopping against the sides of their glasses and running sticky and cold down their fingers.

“Cheers,” Louis says, his eyes crinkling over the rim. And he lifts his drink until Harry can only see the bottom of the glass and swirling alcohol.

*

“I want to,” Louis says, giggling into Harry’s neck. “I want to request a _song_ , Harry.”

They’d made it to the dance floor not long after finishing their drinks, moving along to Marika and Blondie and the Pointer Sisters and Gloria Estefan. Louis moves like a live wire — energetic, if not the most coordinated — and there always seems to be one finger in the air as if he’s conducting the DJ, hitting out the beat with his fist. Now it seems he wants to control the song choice, too.

“What do you want to request?” Harry shouts in his ear, although they’re pressed tight and close.

Ever since they’d started dancing, it’s been a careless migration in and out of each other’s space. It seems like every part of Louis’ body — from the way his shirt falls over his collarbones to the shape of his arse under those clinging jeans — is a personal invite for Harry to smooth his hands down; to take hold of any available patch of skin within reach. His hands linger at Louis’ waist; his thumbs turn a clumsy glide over the jut of his hipbones, and palms splay across the thick of his thighs. And all the while, Louis’ fingers, just this side of rough, slide over Harry’s chest and neck and arms, twisting into his body like he’s trying to leave an imprint in the burning heat.

Muddled with alcohol, Harry’s heart beats so intensely that he can almost hear it over the deafening music.

He watches Louis lick his lips under a heated gaze, and it takes a moment to realise he’s responding.

“ _Harry_. I want to listen to something _cool_!” Louis is saying, mouth curling. “Not music me mum listens to.”

Harry pinches his hip. “Gloria Estefan is _cool_!”

It’s then that _Chain Reaction_ comes on and Louis unexpectedly throws his head back and yells, “I love this song!”

Grabbing Louis’ hand, Harry spins him around, his laughter swallowed up by the crowd. Louis follows through gracelessly, stepping on the toes of Harry’s boots, and when he lets out a whoop of joy, it travels over the music, wild and dizzy, and like it could be drawn right from Harry’s very own thudding chest.

It’s not a song to grind to or to slow dance romantically, but from where Louis’ back is aligned to his chest, Harry feels the sticky heat of Louis’ skin under his thin shirt and the rhythmic movement of his arse against his upper thighs, and there’s warmth of a completely different kind spreading through him, building with want and urgency.

Louis is singing, “We talk about love, love, love!” and his head is tipped back on Harry’s shoulder and his throat is exposed, and Harry’s hands slip under his shirt, skimming across the soft of his tummy, the sweet little curve. He feels Louis let out a puff of breath, a huff of laughter, squirming a little in his hold, and his warm, peach fuzz skin moves under his palms like the swell of waves — rolling back and forth into his touch in a beseeching current. It’s a slick bombardment, a sensory overload under a throbbing bass, and Harry finds himself hardening in the tight restriction of his jeans, aching where Louis presses low.

“Do you want to head back to mine?” Harry says directly into Louis’ ear, mouth brushing against the shell.

“I thought I was the one picking you up,” Louis says, laughing.

Harry presses a kiss to the jump of his pulse on his neck, to the smooth exposure of skin on his shoulder, and Louis shivers beneath his hands, laughter turning thin and breathless.

“Consider me picked up,” Harry says, voice low. “Can we go now? My hotel is close.”

“Yeah,” Louis says, turning to face Harry, grin on his lips and flush on his cheeks. “Yeah, let’s go.”

Harry leans down, can’t help but brush their mouths together in a short kiss, and then another less brief, before taking Louis’ hand and pulling him towards the door. He stumbles in his movements, in his effort to hurry, and Louis laughs behind him, pressing himself to Harry’s back, his small hand curling into Harry’s hip.

The cool breeze outside dries the sweat on their skin as they make it towards the hotel, stumbling along streets now nearly deserted, with only echoes of music following behind them. Harry feels tacky and warm and giddy, and his feet are still tripping beneath him and Louis’ laughter is endless, shoulders shaking and hands covering his mouth but suppressing nothing.

“Shush, shut up,” Harry says, but he’s laughing, too, helplessly.

They pass some police officers making their rounds, signature khaki green turning lurid under lamplight. They watch them, and Harry thinks through the shadowy night and the laughter fizzing in his chest, their dry smiles are like waning moons over a neap tide, hanging in the dark.

“You right, boys?” one of them asks, and Louis replies, remarkably coherent, “Good evening, officers! Don’t worry, we’re only a _little_ bit drunk!”

“Good to hear,” the other says, clearly amused, and she waves them off as they half run towards the Esplanade, “ _Bloody tourists_ ,” heard faintly behind them.

Louis’ fingers have hooked themselves in the belt loops of Harry’s jeans by the time they arrive at the hotel, and then they’re staggering through the atrium garden. He’s pressed so close that Harry can feel Louis’ teeth bite into his shoulder every time he stops, the heat of his mouth radiating through his shirt. 

When the elevator doors have finally closed behind them, Harry ignores the glass walls and pushes Louis up against the side, hauling him in at the hips and fitting their lips together in a desperate kiss. His palms curl securely around the curve of Louis’ body, like Louis was made to slot there, nestled in his hands, and Louis tastes like rum and salt and moonlight beneath his claiming mouth. Louis moans into the kiss, parting his lips and licking into Harry’s mouth wetly, hands coming up to grip at his neck and wind themselves into his hair, twisting and pulling. A jagged breath leaves Harry’s lips as they tug sharply, carelessly, and his fingers slip down to dig into the firm flesh of Louis’ arse, even as the lift dings open at his floor.

On legs that are already tangling together, Louis tries to push them out, and they pitch backwards towards the door, giggling madly. Releasing his grip with great reluctance, Harry fumbles to get his card out of his wallet, not helped by the way Louis snakes his way between Harry and the door, biting at his neck and sucking a wet mark into the skin there through his gleeful smile.

“Fuck,” Harry says, and it comes out as a half-laugh, half-groan, his hand hitting the door next to Louis’ head and hips arching forward on their own accord. “Fuck, _Louis_. Louis, stop, we’ve got to get inside.”

Louis laughs against his neck, warm puffs of air on Harry’s damp skin, and the fluff of his hair brushing against Harry’s face.

“Yeah, yeah. Okay, yeah,” he says, finally pulling away enough for Harry to swipe them in with shaking hands.

The door slams shut behind them, and Harry smacks at the switch on the wall to turn the lights on, flooding the newly cleaned room and tucked-in bed in a yellow glow. The mellow light and pinpricks of colour through the gauze curtains cast shadows on the boy before him — the sharp cut of his cheekbones and jawline, and the dark ash of his eyelashes — and draws an aura around him that in the heat of the moment feels nothing short of divine.

“You’re really fucking gorgeous,” Harry says, voice gruff, but Louis just laughs, patting him sloppily on the cheek before stepping backwards into the room, moving under the broken lamplight.

Like he still has the remnants of a song ringing faintly in their ears, Louis slowly strips off his clothes. With a smirk on his face, he takes off his shirt, crossing his arms over his stomach and tugging up the loose material, revealing tanned, tattooed skin, soft indents at his ribs, and an almost hourglass waist that has heat gathering low in Harry’s stomach. Louis’ hands trail down his torso and over a faint patch of hair to unbutton the top of his jeans, slowly dragging down the zipper and pulling at the denim.

Harry’s mouth goes dry, hands unconsciously clutching into fists in his shirt as Louis kicks off his shoes, wriggling his jeans down the thick of his thighs, and stepping out of them with sockless feet.

He’s so beautiful; might just be one of the most beautiful things that Harry’s ever seen. And the way that he’s displayed in front of him — all tanned lines and curves and flexing muscle, and how he’s so obviously half-hard in his boxers — makes Harry nearly dizzy with it. 

Louis follows Harry’s line of sight and cups himself through the material, curling his hand around his cock and dragging upwards, making his stomach dip in a ragged breath and then a ragged laugh, knowing exactly what he’s doing.

At that teasing sound, Harry’s feet finally unstick from where they’re rooted in the carpet, and he starts forward, his need to touch overwhelming and hooking him tight below his belly. 

But before he can make it two steps, Louis says, “No. Stay there.” 

Drawing his eyes up, he sees Louis shaking his head, a suspicious glint in his eye. 

“Take your clothes off,” he says.

Harry laughs, almost startled. But more nakedness has always been something he can get on board with, and he finds himself smirking, drawling out an “ _O-kay_ ”.

He complies with much less grace than Louis, unbuttoning the bottom of his shirt and slipping it off his shoulders, and then unzipping his boots, lining them up at the wall. Looking up as he straightens, he finds Louis’ eyes dark on him, and his hand still teasing himself lightly over the material of his boxers, and Harry’s smirk wavers, thumb catching at his buttonhole clumsily. And then, a little more quickly, he strips off his jeans, hopping a bit to get them over the knobs of his knees and ankles.

He feels slightly off kilter, like he’s trying to stand upright in a sinking house, while the floor and walls slant around him. They’re right in front of each other, stripped down but not yet touching, and then Louis is saying, “Boxers, too,” and the pull in his gut winds in one more revolution, stomach clenching.

When he’s finally exposed, the cool of the aircon pricking goosebumps into his skin and his cock hard in front of him, Louis nods to the armchair next to the bed. There’s a shark grin touching the corners of his lips.

“What?” Harry says. He lets out a huff of confused laughter, pent up energy and adrenalin reacting and fizzing inside of him, and spilling forth like mixed up cola.

Louis just says, “Take a seat, babe.”

Harry awkwardly ambles over and slouches down in the seat, the material scratching a little on his bare, sensitive skin. And Harry’s never been ashamed of his body or his sexuality, but there’s something almost intimidating about the way Louis is looking at him now; standing up while he’s sitting down, and cupping himself through his boxers while Harry’s bare and hard and barely touched.

There’s another twist in his stomach, a dip of arousal that burns with a coat of humiliation, and he maintains eye contact as he stretches his body out in the seat; as he reaches down to touch himself, needing to take the edge off.

Like only moments ago, he’s brought to a halt. 

“Did I say you could touch yourself?” Louis says, teasing.

A strained laugh escapes Harry’s lips, and he retracts his hand, gripping onto the arms of the chair instead. “Are you—” Harry begins to say, but Louis interrupts him. 

“ _Shh_. Just relax.” 

“What would really relax me would be if I could get off sometime soon,” Harry says with a short laugh, but it dies when Louis wriggles his boxers down and sits opposite him on the edge of the bed, his cock standing before him and already wet at the tip.

“All in good time,” Louis says, and his eyes are still far too amused.

Louis’ hands are still touching himself, one over his cock and the other moving feather-light touches up and over his smooth skin, until it reaches the hard pink nub of his small nipple. He thumbs over it with a shaky breath, his chest rising rapidly and his face tipping back towards the ceiling, and Harry feels his own breath stutter, lodging somewhere thick in his throat. His knuckles whiten from the strength of his grip on the armrests, short fingernails scraping along the polyester.

“Fucking hell, Louis,” Harry says with a groan, and he sees a smile on Louis’ lips from where his head is thrown back, sharp angle carved out under the mellow light.

“You can touch yourself,” Louis says, “but just here,” and he pinches at the bud again, letting out a soft, high breath.

Harry releases the armrest, his right hand coming up to graze along the outside of his pec, barely brushing at the nipple. Even that slight touch has his eyelids briefly fluttering closed, and teeth biting into his lip.

He feels more than sees Louis focusing back on him, his gaze like liquid heat on Harry’s skin, and his fingers just teasing the dark outline of his areola. Harry mimics the movement, and his nipples have always been sensitive, but now it feels like every soft touch of his fingertips sends heady waves of arousal sweeping through his body.

Before him, Louis grips harder at the base of his cock as he pinches at his nipple, pulling it lightly and then more firmly, and Harry watches it pebble and darken with the flush of his chest. The sight makes him thumb down harder on his own, releasing a low moan at the sudden twinge of pain and the shock of heat that follows, and his other hand skates down his chest, over his tensing stomach, until it reaches the dark hair leading to his aching dick, so very desperate to touch. He massages the skin there, knuckles just grazing along the side of his cock, already dripping with precome, but he keeps his eyes on Louis, waiting for his cue.

Louis just grins and shakes his head, before switching sides and twisting at his other small nipple, lashes briefly fluttering at the feeling. It’s torture to have to watch this and not have permission to touch, but Harry can’t tear his eyes away from reddening skin and the glistening sweat pooling in between the rolls of Louis’ stomach, and the way his small, delicate fingers roll the tender bud between them, eliciting soft moan after soft moan.

His own cock throbs, spurting out more precome as Louis starts to move his fist, unhurried and loose, up and down over his curved length, pink and wet-tipped and perfect. Stroking his own hand up his chest, Harry feels his heart thumping rapidly underneath his fingertips, before he flicks down hard at the tender nipple, a pained gasp arching through his body.

“You can,” Louis says, and his voice is husky, breathless, his fist speeding up. “You can touch yourself. Properly.”

The sudden flood of relief and pleasure when he finally touches his cock is almost too much to bear. He curls his palm around the base, gripping tightly, and it feels so hot and sensitive that he bites his lip at the touch, simultaneously wanting to pull back and to strip his cock raw.

“Fuck,” Louis says, stilling his hand with obvious reluctance, and the words come out with a break of laughter. “If you could see yourself. You look like you’re in pain.”

Harry lets out the ghost of a laugh at that, fragmented and paper-thin. “Yeah, because you’re all the way over there, and I’m here with my dick in my own hand. Can I touch you?”

“Not— not yet,” Louis says, and there’s still mischief there, threaded through the words and the lines by his eyes. “Wanna see you come first. Get yourself all dirty.”

Harry groans, feeling frustrated and turned on, and heading dick-first into too far gone. He slides his hand down his length, beginning to work up a rhythm, keeping his eyes trained on Louis in front of him and all his beautiful softness and sharp lines. He thumbs over the head of his cock, pulling at the foreskin and smearing the precome down his shaft, and again, then again; firmer, slicker.

Louis’ mouth is parted slightly, a furrow forming between his brows, and Harry wonders how close he is; if he feels as on edge as Harry does, so near to toppling and falling, and all his muscles tensing in anticipation for when he hits the ground.

He moves his other hand to palm at his balls, spreading his legs and digging his toes into the carpet, and it’s so good, too good, the feel of it; his fingers burning along the fat vein on the underside of his cock, and the scratching texture of the chair on his bare arse and back, and Louis’ hooded, focused gaze that seems to drag the very breath from his lungs.

He begins moving his hand faster, palm a little rough on the glide, a little tight at the head, and he massages his balls in his hand, a finger skirting down to brush at the thin skin beneath and his throat constricting in a shaky moan. His thighs clench instinctively and his legs spread further, wanton, aching for more. 

“Fuck, Harry,” Louis says, and Harry sees Louis start moving his hand once more, eyebrows narrowing in concentration and breath turning shallow. “Fuck, come on, babe.”

It doesn’t take much more, Harry’s hand pumping swiftly and desperately along his cock, and Louis before him, moaning prettily and touching himself unsteadily. There’s a rush of pleasure flooding the cavities of his chest, a tightening in his joints, and he releases in a shuddering mess, streaking up the tattoos on his stomach and over his rabbiting heart.

In his momentary daze he can faintly hear Louis swear in front of him, and the wet sound of him speeding up his hand. And even though his body feels wrung through, there’s still that incessant need, that urge and urgency to touch. He slips to the floor, crawling between Louis’ legs, the stretch of Louis’ thighs his altar, and he kisses his knee, moves his palms up his calves with a reverent touch.

“Go on,” he says, voice still hoarse, and words spilling stupid out of his mouth. “Want to see you come. Gonna look so beautiful. So fucking gorgeous, so beautiful.”

Louis whimpers, and his thighs are tense where Harry lays his hands, the lines of muscle flexing under the fine hairs, and his toes pointed at the floor by Harry’s knees. At Harry’s touch, he arches his back, thrusting into the grip of his hand, the head wet and swollen and mouth-watering where it peeks through. He’s still got a hand coursing the expanse of his chest, trails lost in sweat and soft pink-stained skin, and he’s beautiful, so beautiful, hair falling in his eyes and eyes piercing down at Harry, who sits naked and come-streaked at his feet.

Heart thudding, his erection not yet given the chance to go down, Harry mouths at the skin of Louis’ thighs, drawing a gasp when he pushes them further apart, moving towards the centre. He takes Louis’ cock from his grip, picks up the rhythmic glide, his own cock twitching almost painfully between his numbing legs. He licks greedily at the head, tongue flattening and lapping at the precome and Louis whimpers with each movement, arse squirming restlessly on the sheets.

“Harry,” he stutters out, eyelashes falling across his cheeks in an elliptical shadow. “Fuck, _Harry_.” 

And that’s all the warning Harry gets before he’s coming, spurts of white catching on Harry’s tongue and smearing his lips and cheeks and chin. Harry presses his hand down on Louis’ thighs as his hips thrust forward, and he pumps him through it with firm, long strokes, pulling soft moan after soft moan, until Louis’ shudders temper out into stillness.

When Harry looks up, Louis’ chest is heaving and there’s a stunned look on his face that slowly transforms into a grin when he takes in Harry’s appearance.

“Shit,” he says, laughing. He reaches down to swipe at the come on Harry’s lips, and when he presses it to the plush of Harry’s bottom lip, Harry can’t help but draw it into his mouth, tasting salted sex. “ _Shit_ ,” he says again. 

Harry releases the finger with a wet pop, winking up at him all smug, and Louis rolls his eyes, pushing a little at his damp cheek.

Harry pulls himself up, bones protesting with exhaustion and spine twinging from the effort, and Louis immediately flops back on the bed, cock released and softening at his hip. He drags his eyes up the expanse of Louis’ body, and when he gets to Louis’ face, he sees him flush, wrinkling up his nose in a helpless laugh.

Forcing himself walk to the bathroom for a washer, Harry wets one of the complimentary towels and cleans off the come already drying and flaking on his chest and face. His body is weighted with content, too heavy to do much more than rub perfunctorily at his skin and carelessly sweep back the tangle of his hair. The night already feels like it’s slipping away from him, but when he returns to Louis, ready to wipe him down, he’s still there, stretched out naked on the bed, golden and sated and beautiful.

Harry kneels next to him, dragging the washcloth over his chest, and Louis regards him with bright, half-lidded eyes.

“Why do I always feel like I’ve been drugged when I orgasm?” he says, voice rough and sleepy.

“Not sure. There’s probably a study on that,” Harry says, and he leans down to press a kiss in the middle of his clean chest, cheek brushing at the words inked there. “But you’re welcome to stay.”

Louis starfishes for a bit, like he’s making a snow angel out of the bedclothes, until Harry pinches at his hip and rolls him over so he can pull down the tightly tucked blankets.

After he dumps the washcloth back in the bathroom, sloppily brushing his teeth, he comes out to Louis already snuggled under the covers, face smushed into one of the pillows and breathing steadily.

There’s an unwarranted amount of endearment at the edges of his exhaustion that Harry’s too muddled to pull apart, so he turns off the lights and tucks himself in beside Louis, close enough to feel the warmth emanating from his body, yet not close enough to touch. 

He sends out a small goodnight, and then the city is quiet around them, the waves silent and gentle beyond the mangroves and layers of calming heat. It only takes a moment for Harry to quickly dip into a deep and heavy sleep.

*

Lush sunlight is shining through the open curtains when Harry wakes up, and he feels disorientated and too warm, and weighed down with the dissatisfying tail end of a dream. Making an effort to move, he soon realises that Louis has turned over in his sleep, snuggled up against Harry’s side, his head tucked sweetly into his neck and legs twined between his. Harry’s not doing much better, his hand holding Louis close at the curve of his waist, and his morning wood tenting at the blankets.

He groans a little, edging himself out of Louis’ embrace and the side of the bed carefully so as not to wake him, but Louis just creases his forehead, clutching weakly at the covers until Harry tucks him back in.

He has a quick shower, cold water turned up and cock unwillingly deflating, and he washes himself of the remaining sweat and stickiness of the night before, trying unsuccessfully to scrub away the uncomfortable feeling stiffening his movements. 

It’s only when his skin begins to prune that he steps out. He runs a towel through his hair, water flicking at the mirror and down his back, and then wraps it around his waist, tucking it tightly at his hip, not sure if Louis would be into a morning show.

It’s that thought that has him hesitating at the door. He hasn’t had a solitary hook-up in a while, and not often one where the guy’s ended up staying over, sleeping through rather than sneaking out before morning — a morning that won’t be helped by the lack of alcohol and the prospect of orgasms. 

More than that, though — more than the likely awkward small talk that will precede Louis’ inevitable scuttling departure — is the growing feeling that in another circumstance, this wouldn’t be a solitary hook-up at all. His belly twists, unsettled, at the thought of after.

Finally working himself up to open the door, he finds Louis sitting up in bed, the blankets pooled around his waist and his hands rubbing at bleary eyes. His hair is standing up in tufts, stiffened into random peaks from his hair gel, and he looks small and young, and like he could easily slip between someone’s fingers, and just as easily out of Harry’s hotel room door.

“Morning,” Harry says when Louis doesn’t notice him, and his head snaps up, startled.

Harry moves forward, shuffling onto the bed, and when Louis purses his lips together, he kisses him softly on the cheek and not on the mouth like he wants to. There’s a hint of stubble there, and Harry wonders how Louis might react if he buried himself in Louis’ skin, just to feel the rough and the warm and the sleep-soft of it.

“Morning,” Louis says, gruff from sleep. “Sorry, I’m a bit slow today. I’ll be out of your hair in a bit.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Harry says. “You can have a shower if you want. Take advantage of being in a hotel and all that. And there’s a buffet breakfast downstairs, too, if you’re hungry.”

Louis seems to hesitate before nodding, giving Harry a slight smile. “Yeah, cheers. I think I’ll take you up on the shower.”

He doesn’t seem to want to move just yet, so Harry retrieves his phone from his discarded jeans and sits back on the bed next to him, seeing a couple unread texts on the screen. The first is from Leigh-Anne, dated late last night, saying that she’s headed off with faux-hawk, whose name is apparently Liam, and wishing Harry a nice night. The other is from just a few minutes ago, saying, _soz haz, hope you dont mind, liam says he wants to take me round. ur welcome to come dont want to leave you by urself xx_

Harry lets out a small sigh, eyebrows pinching together. It’s not like they’re on holiday together, and they’re not really obligated to spend time with each other, but it still feels a bit like abandonment. Third-wheeling doesn’t really have a lot of appeal.

He’s about to text back, when he feels a thumb pressing between his eyebrows, just like the night before. When he looks up, Louis’ expression is mostly sleepy and unreadable.

“What’s up?” he says, withdrawing his hand.

“Uh, it’s nothing,” Harry says, shrugging. “I’ve just been jilted, that’s all.”

“You here with someone?” Louis asks, eyebrows raising, and glancing around the room as if he’s searching for evidence.

With a small laugh, Harry says, “Yeah, kind of. Just a friend.”

Louis gives him a quizzical look, but doesn’t ask any more questions, and Harry sends Leigh-Anne back a quick message saying, _don’t worry about it, have fun!! xx_ , that he can’t say he really feels in his bones. 

It’s when he presses send that Louis finally slides out of the covers, grabbing his underwear from the side of the bed, before ducking into the bathroom, so quick that Harry only has the barest glimpse of his arse, slightly paler than the rest of his tanned body. The bathroom door closes with a very decisive click, and Harry’s left in a quiet room contemplating the lonely weekend ahead.

*

By the time Louis makes it out of the shower, towelling his wet hair and underwear regretfully on, Harry’s seated on the edge of the bed and already dressed in white swim shorts and a loose grey shirt, stubborn hair pulled up in a bun. He flicks through his phone and tries not to stare at Louis’ nudity, nor notice how brisk he is in gathering up his clothes.

“So, what are you, a tourist?” Louis says eventually, struggling into his jeans. Harry’s not sure if he’s actually interested or just trying to fill the silence. “You don’t seem like an expat.”

“I’m here for work,” Harry says, definitely not following the slide of Louis’ jeans up his thighs. “Doing some location scouting and photography. You?”

“Backpacker,” Louis says. “I’m here with some of me mates. Gonna head off to Cairns next week and then down the east coast.”

“Lucky,” Harry says a little wistfully as Louis finally zips up, grabbing his shirt and hauling it over his head. It falls over his stomach and Harry instantly mourns it. “I’m off on Monday. Back to work and all that.”

“Well, then,” Louis says, and he collects his phone and wallet from the bed.

For one frantic moment, Harry thinks that this might be it — Louis is going to walk out the door, and Harry’s going to be spending the weekend trying to entertain himself, alone and abandoned.

Yet, Louis doesn’t make to leave. He stands there, phone and wallet in hand, looking down at Harry perched uncomfortably at the end of the bed, eyes still tired around the edges, but sharp in the middle where it counts. Harry looks up at him, biting his lip, and there’s an itch to just pull him forward and into his lap; tear at his shirt and mouth at his skin until he can convince him to stay. It’s so unfair — how could he have had Louis in his bed all night and barely even got to touch?

“God, stop it,” Louis says, rolling his eyes. “Stop pouting, for fuck’s sake.”

“I’m sorry?” Harry says, but he releases his lip, noting the way Louis focuses on it, narrowing his eyes.

“ _God_. Okay, I’ve decided,” Louis says with an emphatic nod. “I’m going to take care of you.”

Now it’s Harry’s turn to furrow his brow. “I’m not a _child_. I don’t need you to take care—”

“You leave on Monday, right?” Louis interrupts. Harry nods. “Then we’ll make it good, yeah? See what you can before you go. Sound all  
right?”

“You— you don’t have to show me around,” Harry says hesitantly. He really, really wants Louis to show him around. “I’m a big boy and all that.”

“Yeah, I’ve not forgotten how big you are, believe me,” Louis says drily.

The sun runs pale and golden over Louis’ skin, and he looks just as beautiful as he did last night. And when he takes a step forward, for the first time this morning, Harry feels the twist in his belly unfurling in cautious hope.

“Besides,” Louis says, “it might just ruin my weekend if I have to think of you up here all sad and lonely and with that dumb, sad look on your face.”

Harry raises an eyebrow. “Oh, so this is really about me ruining _your_ weekend?”

“ _Exactly_ ,” Louis says, but there’s a pinch in his cheek like a held back smile. 

He takes another step forward, coming in between Harry’s legs, and Harry immediately raises his arms to grip at his waist, bunching his t-shirt into a cinch and pulling him closer.

“So, you let me help you out,” he continues, reaching up to push a strand of Harry’s hair behind his ear, “and maybe we’ll have a bit of fun, yeah?”

“Fun,” Harry repeats, and he watches as Louis licks his lips.

“Yeah,” Louis says, and it comes out soft. “Fun.”

Harry drags his gaze up from Louis’ lips to his eyes, then back down again, and he feels Louis shiver a bit at his ribs, under Harry’s thumbs. Even so, when Harry leans up and tries to pull Louis down into a kiss, he squirms away and out of his reach. 

By the time Harry’s got his bearings, Louis is already halfway out the door.

“Well, come on then,” Louis says, turning around with a grin. “Get a move on. Didn’t I hear mention of a buffet?”

*

“You’re going to give yourself a heart attack,” Harry says when Louis returns to their table with a plateful of sausages, scrambled eggs and hash browns.

Louis ignores him and says, “Did you know they call brown sauce, barbecue sauce here? And ketchup, tomato sauce? Fucking weird.”

“I don’t know,” Harry says, cutting up the fruit on his plate. “Seems kind of more descriptive in a way. Please say you’ll have some apple.”

He gestures to the slices of apple, melon and banana on his plate hopefully.

“Is this a nice way of telling me my spunk tastes rank?” Louis says, screwing his face up, but taking a piece of melon anyway. “Didn’t seem to mind so much last night.”

Harry lets out a surprised bark of laughter, before looking around to see if anyone is within hearing distance. The hotel buffet is thankfully not that busy; there are only a few families coming in late and loitering around the muffin selection. 

“ _No_ , that’s not what I was insinuating,” Harry says. “Tasted—” He searches for something that doesn’t sound too offensive, and Louis cackles, loud and uninhibited.

“Yeah, don’t strain yourself,” he says. “I mean, my mate tells me I mostly smell like takeaway, so I’m not expecting it to be worthy of Gordon Ramsay or anything.” He tilts his head to the side, squinting a bit, before adding, “Maybe Jamie Oliver, considering it’s all natural. As like a dressing or something.”

“We’re not talking about this at breakfast,” Harry says, looking down at his yoghurt. “Nope, I am not imagining restaurants serving dishes made from semen.”

“Maybe, like, fish and chips with a jizz—” Louis begins, but Harry speaks loudly over him, saying, “So, this weather, hey?” and Louis laughs, falling back in his chair.

He’s looking at Harry with bright eyes and laughter high in the pink of his cheeks, and Harry can’t help smiling back, despite the mild churning in his stomach. 

“But seriously,” Louis says, nodding towards Harry’s breakfast, “don’t tell me you’re one of those health nutters that never let up, even on holiday.” 

“No,” Harry says slowly, picking at his fruit. “More like, I _wish_ I was. I can feel my body’s, like, slowly shutting down, because I’ve been consuming nothing but grease and fat and alcohol since I’ve got here.” 

“There does seem to be an abundance of that,” Louis says, eyes squinting with mirth, and it sounds rather approving. 

He eyes Louis’ plate again, and thinks yeah, he probably does approve. 

Louis has begun to cut up his toast into tiny squares. His sausages and fried egg, too, become small bite-sized pieces, as if he’s going to layer them up like breakfast hors d’oeuvres. It reminds Harry of when he was very little — little enough for his dad to still be living with them — and how every Sunday morning his family would have a big breakfast fry-up, and his dad would lean over his small shoulders and cut up his food just like that. He remembers that feeling of looking up at his dad, of being loved and cared for, and something warm alights between Harry’s ribs for this small, ritualistic act, even as the plate in front of Louis is taken over by scattered piles of food. 

“Do you perhaps want some?” Louis says, raising an eyebrow when he catches Harry looking. 

“Nah,” Harry says, “I’m fine.” 

Louis shrugs, saying, “Suit yourself,” before shovelling a forkful of sausage, egg and toast into his mouth, a fleck of sauce dribbling down his shirt, and the unconscious smile on Harry’s mouth curls a little before it breaks with a huff of laughter. 

They eat quietly for a while, Harry’s muesli, yogurt and fruit sitting almost too sweet in his mouth, while families slowly filter through the restaurant, kitted out in florals and holding onto wide-brimmed hats. The light from the atrium ceiling falls over the creepers spilling from the balconies above them and the potted palms surrounding them, and the same as nearly every day since he’s arrived, Harry wonders at the sense of wildness, of nature abundant, that seems to permeate every tread of this place. 

“So what are you plans then?” Louis asks through another mouthful, when the silence seems to stretch on for a moment too long. There’s sunlight catching at the drying ends of his hair and his dark lashes, turning his eyes bright and clear. “Got anywhere in particular you want to go?” 

“I’ve rented a car,” Harry says, before amending with a wince, “Well, Leigh-Anne and I’ve rented a car, and we _were_ going to drive down to the Wildlife Park, until she made other plans. We were also thinking about Katherine and Kakadu, but I don’t think there’s time. So, other than that, I’m pretty easy.” He shrugs, grinning, hopefully charming. “I guess I don’t really need to tell you that,” he says and Louis laughs, another loud, raucous thing. 

“Yeah, well, Katherine and Kakadu would definitely be too much, it’ll take hours to get out there,” Louis agrees. “It’s a shame that you don’t have a few more days.” 

Harry taps his toes against Louis’ heel under the table, catching Louis’ eye. “Yeah. It is.” 

Louis rolls his eyes, and he continues, “Well, my suggestion is we go to the Wildlife Park today, and then maybe go to Berry Springs after, have a bit of a swim, nothing too strenuous. Then sun kind of leeches the energy out of you anyway. Then tomorrow, maybe we drive somewhere a little closer, like Adelaide River? They’ve got the jumping crocodile cruise that I’ve been wanting to see.” 

He raises an eyebrow as if expecting a challenge, but Harry just nods, slouching back in his seat. “Sounds like a plan.” 

They arrange things quickly; Harry to pick up the car, while Louis heads home to change, and then he’ll swing by to pick him up. 

When they finally finish, Harry only stealing a few of Louis’ potato gems, he says, “Thank you, you know. Like, I feel like I might be messing up your weekend a bit. I doubt you thought you’d be spending it playing tour guide to a one night stand.” 

Louis is looking at him, expression strange. “Well, it’s not like I’m a professional tour guide or anything, so don’t expect any deep cultural insights. I’ve only been here a couple weeks, and a large portion of that’s been spent drunk in a pool. Besides,” he says with a shrug and a sly smile — one that manages to turn that lingering warmth in Harry’s chest to something closer to burning — “you’re not such bad company, Harry.” 

*

After he gets the hotel to call a taxi for Louis, Harry heads back to his room and gathers his rucksack, stuffing in one of the hotel towels and a change of clothes, and then grabbing his camera.

He picks up the car — a newer model silver Nissan Patrol that runs smoothly under his hands — and Google Maps takes him the short ten-minute drive to Louis’ place. He’d told Harry that he and his friends were renting out a place in the suburbs, something they’d found on Airbnb, but instead of a dingy townhouse or flat, he’s surprised to see a two-storey weatherboard house on a large block, surrounded by what looks like a forest of palm trees, with bougainvillea tumbling over the high fence in vivid magenta blooms.

He parks the car up on the kerb and hops out of the car, letting himself through the gates to a door almost hidden in the shade. He bangs a bit on the screen door, but when no one answers, he tries the handle, toeing off his Nikes and stepping into the house.

The place is worn-in, lived-in; all wooden furniture and earthy colours draping the walls and louvred windows. Even though the tiles are cool beneath his feet, and there are fans whirring above him in the hall, and beyond in the kitchen and living room, there’s still a heavy warmth blanketing his skin, and the distinct smell of rain or frigid water in the air.

He shifts in place, hesitant to go in any further uninvited, and calls out a tentative “Hello?” into the empty room.

There’s the padding of feet down the hall, and a voice responds in an Irish accent with a “Yeah, yeah, keep your tits on, I’m coming!”

A barefoot blond wearing nothing but black shorts appears in front of him, hair sticking up in different directions like he’s just woken up. There’s a kind of boyish appeal about him, straight shoulders and loose limbs, and he’s got an eyebrow raised at Harry, already asking a question before the words are out of his mouth.

“Can I help you?”

“Um,” Harry says, “I’m Harry. I’m here for Louis?”

“Louis?” the guy says, scratching idly at his stomach. “What are you doing with Louis?”

“We’re going to the Wildlife Park?” Harry says. He suddenly feels, unnervingly, like he’s thirteen and under parental investigation.

The guy’s dark eyebrows knit together. “Are you asking me, or are you going?”

Before Harry can answer another shirtless guy comes in, all dark-haired and dark-eyed and tattooed and low-slung jeans, and Harry wonders if Louis is one of those people that collect other good-looking people so that they can all hang out and be good-looking together. And _shirtless_.

“What’s happening?” the new addition asks, taking up position beside the blond.

Not taking his eyes off Harry, the guy replies, “Harry, here, says him and Lou are going out today,” and the other’s eyes widen fractionally, giving Harry the once over.

“If that’s okay?” Harry says, shuffling his feet. 

There’s a terrifying split second where they both look at each other, before unexpectedly bursting out laughing.

“Mate, don’t ask us, we’re not Louis’ keepers,” the blond cackles. He ambles forward and sticks out his hand. “I’m Niall.”

“Zayn,” the other says, and Harry shakes his hand too, still feeling a little like he’s being evaluated and wishing that he’d done something more with his hair.

“Would you like a drink?” Niall says, heading into the kitchen. “Knowing Lou, he might be awhile.”

“Cheers,” Harry says, sitting up at the bench. He presses his knees together, knocking them against the wood because the seat sits a little too high, and trying not to hunch over.

He’s handed some cold water, while Zayn and Niall position themselves across from him, leaning back against the stove-top and regarding him with crossed arms. He takes a careful sip of the water, wetting his lips.

“So,” Harry says after a pause, “you’re Louis’ friends?”

“Yeah,” Niall says. “Are you?”

He’s saved from answering once again by Zayn, who elbows Niall in the stomach.

“Give him a break, Ni,” he says, and then to Harry, “You’re the one Lou went home with last night, I take it?”

“Yep, that would be me,” Harry says, taking another small sip of water.

“And what are your intentions with our boy?” Niall demands.

“I just—” Harry says, eyes widening and looking at Zayn pleadingly, but apparently there is only so much help one can receive, because all he gets back is a raised eyebrow. “I— uh. _Fun?_ ”

There’s a twitch at the corner of Niall’s mouth, but before he can say anything more, the sound of footsteps pattering their way down the stairs reaches his ears, and then Louis is walking into the kitchen and palpable relief is flooding through every inch of Harry’s body.

His hair is still soft and fluffy from the shower, falling over his forehead, and he’s changed into swim shorts like Harry and a loose red vest. He’s shaved and it makes him look sweet and young and like he’d have to scoot the car seat right up the wheel if he were to drive the Nissan parked out the front. Maybe put a cushion on the seat, too, although Harry recognises that Louis is probably not the kind of person who would appreciate that comment.

There’s a towel thrown over his shoulder, and he twists it between his hands as he looks between the two boys and Harry, narrowing his eyes.

“What’s going on?” Louis says, voice raising in suspicion. “Have you been talking about me?”

“No,” Niall says, not even attempting to quash his grin. “Just making sure that Harry is good enough to take out our darling little Lou.”

Louis groans, hand coming up to cover his face. “ _God_ , I hate you both.”

“I didn’t say anything!” Zayn protests, hands raised, but Louis ignores him. 

He marches over to Harry and ushers him off his seat, guiding him with a firm hand on his shoulder out the door, and barely giving him the time to slip his shoes on and call out a hasty “Bye!” over his shoulder.

Niall follows them with bare feet down the footpath, and he watches them through the window from the kerb as they belt up. He raps on the glass just as Harry starts the car, but Louis shakes his head firmly.

“If you dare open it, I’ll kill you.”

“You won’t,” Harry says evenly, already pressing the button for the power window, which bypasses Louis’ frantic pressing from the passenger seat. “Besides, I can’t just drive away. It’d be rude, yeah?”

Niall is beaming when it finally rolls down all the way, and Louis is scowling.

Leaning his arms on the window of the car, Niall says, “Hey, before you go, Harry, we’re having a barbecue tomorrow night, if you want to come round?”

Harry looks at Louis, who doesn’t stop scowling, but manages to shrug.

“If you want,” he says, which isn’t the most enthusiastic response, but Harry will take what he can get.

Leaning over Louis, Harry says, “Yeah, that’d be great,” and Niall gives them a thumbs up, before stepping back.

Harry lets Louis roll the window back up as they head off the kerb, Niall waving them off behind them, and then turning left and making his way toward the Stuart Highway.

“You don’t have to come,” Louis says after a moment, staring at the flat stretch of road ahead of them. “Like, don’t feel pressured or anything.”

Harry glances at him, and when Louis looks back, he’s not smiling, but under the bright light of the morning bursting through every crevice of the car, it’s like warmth is gathering around him; in the lines by his eyes and the soft gold of his skin, and the sweet ducktails that Harry wants to tuck behind his ears.

“I don’t feel pressured,” Harry says, brows furrowing and gaze shifting back to the road. “I want to. Can’t be in Australia and not have a barbecue, yeah? And that aside, it’s not like I have much else planned.”

Louis laughs a little. “Right, yeah.”

Harry’s not sure, but he thinks he can sense him relaxing a little, sinking into the seat.

They make it onto the highway, and Louis turns on the radio, the Offspring crackling through the speakers from the mainstream pop station. He hums along a little under his breath, the kind of humming people do when they know all the words but are holding back from belting it out alone. Harry wishes he knew the song so he could sing along.

Instead, he asks, “So, how long have you known Niall and Zayn for?”

“A few years now,” Louis says. He’s already kicking his feet against the glove box, a light, swinging rhythm. 

Harry finds himself tapping his fingers on the wheel in time, and the small sound adds to the bass and the hum of the engine, the wind running along the panelling and Louis’ kicking feet.

“I met Niall at a party in uni, I think, and Zayn and I were in the same literature class.”

“You studied literature?” Harry says, and Louis’ response is immediate, voice dry.

“Yeah, I know, I don’t exactly seem the type.”

Harry shrugs. “No, I mean, I’ve just met you. It would be out of line to make assumptions, right?”

“ _Right_ ,” Louis says slowly, before continuing. “I wasn’t really studying it though, it was just an elective for my drama course.”

“So, you’re an actor,” Harry says, and he thinks he can see it. He can remember the way Louis had danced last night, the way he moved his body, all kinetic energy and sex in his hips, even when he was drunk and flailing about. Alcohol diluted and translated onto stage and screen, Harry thinks Louis’ presence would be nothing less than compelling.   
Even so, Louis laughs, and it sounds brittle at the edges. “Kind of.”

He’s slipped on his aviators and Harry can’t see his eyes, only the wry quirk of his mouth.

He says, “I was spotted in my uni’s production of this student-penned play by the director of a small theatre company. I was in my third year, and they offered me a part in this stage adaptation of the _Outsiders_ , and I just decided to drop out. Thought that, like, it was going to be my chance, right? To really make it.”

Harry hums, nodding. He knows from his own line of work how fickle the industry can be — how an opportunity might be your one and only chance.

“Was it?” he says, flicking a glance at Louis.

“What do you think?” Louis says. “Have _you_ heard of Louis Tomlinson, up-and-coming stage actor?”

“To be fair,” Harry says, “I’m not sure I know many stage actors at all.”

“Yeah,” Louis says, looking at his lap.

There’s a pause, and the landscape shifts around them, traffic thickening even as civilisation thins, and green blurring into orange and red. And then Louis seems to square his shoulders, straightening up once more in his seat. He sunglasses reflect nothing but the transforming scenery. 

“It ran for a few weeks, and the reviews weren’t horrible or anything. Me mum’s even got a clipping on her fridge of a review that mentions me. But after it ended, I wasn’t taken on with the company, and it was a bit harder to find work. I’ve been doing small parts here and there, like shorts and extras on TV shows, and then working as a waiter in my spare time to tide me over.”

“It’s tough,” Harry says, and Louis pokes him in the side.

“It’s shit, is what it is,” Louis says with a short laugh, and his nose scrunches under the bridge of his sunglasses. “Jesus, sorry, that was unbearably depressing, wasn’t it? Feel like I’ve just unloaded all my problems on you.”

Harry frowns, reaching out to touch Louis lightly on the knee. “Hey, I don’t mind. But, like, you’re still so young. So many actors don’t make it until they’re in their 30s or 40s. Well, mostly men, I mean. You could be like George Clooney!”

Louis laughs again, and it sounds less strained. “Yay for sexism!”

“I’m serious,” Harry says, but he’s laughing, too. “It may be bullshit, but your breakthrough could come in, like, ten years, and you could still win a truckload of awards and get offered dozens of roles, and everyone would still be talking about the amazing career that you have ahead of you. You could still be working when you’re 80.”

Louis turns to look at him, lowering his sunglasses to narrow his eyes at him over the top, and the light glints over the rims, almost too bright to look at.

“Are you some kind of motivational speaker or something? Have I agreed to spend the weekend with a bloke who writes self-help books for a living?”

Harry winks at him. “No, I’m just nice. Lucky you, right?”

“Lucky me,” Louis says, but the dryness is cut with a quirk of his lips, turning up into a gleeful grin. “Did you compare me to George Clooney? I think you just compared me to George Clooney.”

“It’s your piercing eyes and rugged, masculine jawline,” Harry says, nodding assuredly. 

“Right, right,” Louis says. “I mean, piercing eyes, that’s half my job done, innit?”

“That and your killer smile,” Harry says, turning to wink at Louis again, and Louis throws his head back against the headrest in a full-body laugh.

“Jesus,” he says, clutching his stomach with his small hand. “I don’t remember you being this much of a charmer last night.”

“And yet you still let me take you home,” Harry says, and he can’t help but feel a little smug.

“Yeah, well, see, if you haven’t already guessed, I have a history of making bad choices,” Louis says, and laughs when Harry immediately protests, smug smile dropping off his face.

“ _Hey_ ,” he says, and Louis reaches over, patting his shoulder in barest consolation.

“There, there,” he says cheerfully. “You’re not the _worst_ choice I’ve ever made. I mean, you’re not exactly the _best_ either, but—”

“I’m going to push you out of the car and make you walk,” Harry says grumpily.

“No, you won’t,” Louis says, much too confidently for someone who’s known Harry for less than a day. He kicks his feet up on the dash, crossing them at the ankle and leaning back in his seat, and he’s a picture; the embodiment of sun and bliss and freedom. “You love having me around. You _love_ my company.”

“I’d love it if you didn’t damage the rental,” Harry says, but when Louis just sticks his tongue out at him, he grins back. 

Around them, gone is any trace of small town suburbia, only thickening bushland and the rusted dirt of the outback marking the land. The sun beats down in irrepressible waves of heat, strong enough to be felt through the tinted windows and blaring aircon, and it sinks into Harry’s skin, already browning, like summer taking root and turning up freckles.

_Hold Me Up_ by Conrad Sewell has come on the radio and Louis reaches over to turn it up, exclaiming, “I love this song!”, and this — _this_ Harry knows the words to.

He grins at Louis and starts singing, tagging along at the end of the verse, and Louis grins back before joining in, bringing it in at the chorus. It sounds loud, and obnoxious, and liberated.

*

They turn into the parking lot, an open dirt area that has stones crunching under the wheels and pinging at the panelling. It’s fairly full, and as they’re getting out, Harry can see a few families walking past, children skipping ahead on skinny legs and babies in strollers, all chubby cheeks and pastel-coloured hats.

He catches Louis looking, a smile playing across his face, and when he turns to get his camera out of the back seat, he bites his own back, teeth pressing into lip.

They buy their tickets, the girl giving them a brief overview of the park and the three main areas, and showing them the program timetable, before they set off.

“Woodlands first?” Harry says, looking at the map, and Louis nods, apparently content to be led around.

As they’re about to leave the main station, he spots a dad liberally applying sunscreen to a small girl who’s standing next to what appears to be her twin brother, both dwarfed under forest green broad-brim hats.

“Louis,” Harry says, grabbing his elbow before he can wander off, “I forgot the sunscreen in my bag.”

Louis gives him a look. “Does it matter? I don’t want to go back to the car.”

“Yeah, it matters,” Harry says. “Unless you _like_ skin cancer.”

Louis groans, tipping his head back. “We’re not going to get cancer from one day in the sun,” he whines.

“You’ll get sunburnt,” says the small girl who’s just finished being slathered, her dad having moved onto her brother. When Harry looks down she has her hands on her hips and and her lips are pressed together in brilliant disapproval. “And then you’ll hurt. You’ve got to slip, slop, slap, wrap, and then you can play in the sun!”

Harry lets out a bark of laughter and Louis looks torn between charmed and embarrassed at being scolded by a child.

Grinning, Harry kneels down to her level so he can look her in the eye under her brim. “What have you got to do?” he asks.

She blinks at him, before saying, “You’ve got to slip on a shirt, slop on some sunscreen, slap on a hat and wrap on your sunnies. _Everyone_ knows that! Are you _stupid_?”

“Charlotte!” her dad says, but his consternation is somewhat undermined by his shocked laughter.

Above him, Harry can hear Louis cackling wildly.

“I’m sorry,” her dad says, sounding more amused than anything else. “She hasn’t quite learnt the meaning of tact.”

“It’s fine,” Louis says, waving away his apology. “It’s when they stop being so honest that you’ve got to worry, right?”

“That’s probably true,” the dad says. He finishes rubbing the sunscreen into the little boy, and hands it over to Harry, who’s still knelt on the concrete. “You can use ours if you like, as an apology for this brash little beastie. That is, if you don’t mind the strawberry scent.”

“You know, I’m not sure why all things made for kids smell like fruit. You’d think they wouldn’t need more incentive to stick things in their mouths,” Louis muses, and he smiles down at Charlotte, who giggles and says, “Little beasties love their fruit, don’t they, Daddy?”

Harry takes it, smiling gratefully. “Thanks, mate.”

Squinting against the bright sunlight, Charlotte looks up at Louis again with critical eyes. “Are you sure you even know how to put on sunscreen?” she asks.

Louis grins and drops down next to her, his kneeling form exactly her height. He gives Harry a wink. “You know, I’m not too sure. Could you help me?”

Even as Charlotte nods eagerly in response, he father begins to say, “You really don’t have to,” but Louis shakes his head.

“Nah, she’s all right.”

Taking the sunscreen from Harry, Charlotte squirts a generous amount on her hands, and then rubs them together like she’s washing her hands with it, coating them white. Truly, Harry is going to enjoy this.

“ _Okay_ , you’ve got to close your eyes,” she instructs, and Louis squeezes his eyes shut, screwing his whole face up in a way that makes Harry think his own face is probably doing ridiculous things.

She smears it messily across his face, massaging it alternatively into his cheeks and ears before attacking his arms and chest and shoulders. When she’s done, Louis’ fringe is sticking up at an odd angle, and there’s sunscreen up one of his nostrils and a glob under his chin.

“Done?” Louis asks, eyes still shut, and she steps back to admire her handy work.

“Yep!” she exclaims with a clap of her hands. “Perfect!”

Louis blinks open his eyes and looks up at Harry. “Yeah?” he asks, cheek twitching, and Harry nods, holding back his laughter.

“ _Perfect_.”

“Say thank you to the nice man, Charlotte,” her dad says, and he sounds a bit strangled.

Charlotte narrows her eyes. “But I helped _him_. He should thank me!”

“Sorry, how rude of me,” Louis says, holding out his hand, which Charlotte grasps with her sticky palm, small hand engulfed in his. “Thank you so much for your help.”

“You’re welcome,” Charlotte says agreeably, apparently appeased.

Harry quickly wipes on his own layer of sunscreen and hands it back to the father, who looks torn between apologetic and amused.

They wave goodbye, the little girl bouncing in place, and when they’re out of sight, Louis turns to Harry immediately and says, “Give it to me straight. What’s the damage?”

Deadpan, Harry says, “You look like you were face painted by a blind cat,” and Louis screws up his face in laughter.

“Fix it for me, yeah?” and he tilts his head up, eyes fluttering closed and a crease at the corner of his pursed mouth.

He’s so lovely, so sweet from talking to Charlotte, that for a moment Harry can’t move, until Louis pinches him in the stomach, that crease by his mouth deepening.

“Don’t tease,” Harry says a little roughly, pinching him back, and Louis laughs, just how Harry imagines Aphrodite would when she plays her own games.

His hands feel large and ungainly in contrast to the delicate structure of Louis’ face, his thumbs like clumsy paws smoothing across the fine cut of his cheekbones. Harry takes his time sweeping the tips of his fingers along the faint trail of freckles, and down the jump of Louis’ nose, making him huff out a breath of quiet laughter.

He gathers the glob at his chin, dotting along his jaw until Louis grabs his wrist, saying, “Come on, the point it to make it look less like face paint,” and Harry grins, finishes rubbing the cream into Louis’ skin, so he looks shiny and bronzed.

“Done?” Louis says, echoing his question to Charlotte.

“Almost,” Harry replies, and he holds Louis’ face within his hands, placing a kiss into that crease, lips tasting chemicals and smelling strawberries.

Drawing back, Louis looks at him, blinking heavily, but there’s a wry smile quirking at his lips.

“ _Such_ a charmer,” Louis says and Harry laughs, and it’s like there’s sunlight beaming at him from all directions, radiant and warm and endless.

“Come on then,” Louis says, tugging at Harry’s hand and walking ahead. “Take me to the crocodiles! I want to be amazed!”

Harry bites his lip, before swinging his camera around and quickly snapping a picture of Louis’ back; his shoulder blades pulling under the loose fabric of his vest, and the breeze lifting the strands of his hair in a golden halo.

He skips to catch up, bumping into Louis’ hip, and when Louis smiles up at him, his face tacky and eyes bright, he forgets to say that they’re going the wrong way.

*

They make their way to the woodlands first, both shaded by the tall eucalyptus trees and striped in burning light. Louis kicks every pebble they come across until he finds one he likes, and they dribble it back and forth until Harry skids on the stones and almost scrapes himself up in the dirt. Louis laughs but still reaches out to steady him, hand on his elbow, small but solid.

The walk is just being opened after a private wildlife encounter, and a small group exit, children brimming with excitement and already wearied adults overloaded with tiny rucksacks and buggies.

They slip in through the gate before it closes, along with two other couples, and Harry catches a grin on Louis’ face as he looks back at the children, something soft and fond folded into the lines there.

“You really like kids, don’t you?” Harry says, and Louis looks up, blinking as his eyes catch the glare.

“Yeah,” he says. “Got six siblings, a fair bit younger than me,” and the fondness in his smile has seeped into his voice, almost too mellow for the harsh heat. “I think it’s different, you know? Like, when you’re closer in age it’s easy to fight or have that competition between you. But I was nearly seven when my sister was born, and all I can remember was wanting to look after her and help feed her, and just, like, be a good big brother.”

He shrugs a little, gives a small grin that’s covered by the shadows from the trees. “It’s why I can’t help but be a little broody around kids, I suppose.”

“It’s cute,” Harry says, and laughs when Louis makes a face at him. “I’m not like, mocking you or anything. It’s a good thing! I like kids, too!”

“Yeah?” Louis says. “You got any brothers or sisters?”

They’ve reached a grove, and they pause by the waxy, mottled leaves. Here, the dirt path has been worn powder smooth beneath their feet, and the yellow and red ochre greys as the walk becomes greener and grassier.

“Just an older sister,” Harry says. “She’s about three years older than me. Probably one of the best people I know.”

“Bet she’s smarter and better looking, too,” Louis says, nudging him in the side, teasing.

Harry laughs. “Well, that’s probably true, unfortunately,” he says, lifting his shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “Sorry, you got stuck with the lesser sibling.”

Louis just pats his back, too hard to really be considered comforting. “There, there. Sometimes all the good genes get used first, you know how it goes,” he says, canines sharp.

Harry barks out a laugh. “Yeah, that’s exactly how DNA works.”

There’s a little commotion up ahead, the couple gathering together, but Harry is distracted by Louis scrunching up his face a little.

“Figures though, that you’re the youngest. You do come off a bit spoilt.”

Before Harry can even sputter a protest at the hypocrisy, Louis starts gesturing excitedly.

“Look, shut up!” he whispers. “It’s a wallaby!”

He’s right. There ahead of them, at the side of the path and under a ghost gum, is a small grey wallaby with black paws and large velvety ears looking at them curiously.

Harry immediately swings his camera around to the front, but Louis puts a hand on his wrist, stopping him.

“ _Shh_. You’ve got to earn their trust first,” he scolds, like these aren’t animals that have been conditioned since birth to the presence of humans.

He creeps slowly over to the wallaby, huddled over so his vest hangs loosely over his small frame. The wallaby perks its head up before meeting him halfway, doing its strange hopping walk, and Harry bites back a laugh at them both crouched over, hands and paws gathered to their chests.

Louis slowly holds out a hand and the wallaby nuzzles into it, nosing at his fingers, little paws holding his wrist still. And surely trust must be established by now, Harry thinks, flicking his camera on quickly.

“Oh my God,” Louis says, turning to look at him with eyes widened in awe. “It’s so soft. This is kind of horrible, but I kind of understand why people make those fur pelt rugs out of them.”

“Louis!” Harry says, but the reprimand is somewhat nullified by his laughter.

“It’s true!” Louis says, beckoning Harry closer. “Feel her!”

Harry reaches out a tentative hand, stroking along the wallaby’s neck and back, cooing softly when it gives a little shake. Louis is right — its fur is thick and soft and downy, and the way it runs through Harry’s fingers now regrettably reminds him of the faux-mink throw he has over his couch at home.

Louis is transfixed, whispering nonsense as his fingers scritch behind the wallaby’s ears, and Harry pulls back to take a snap of the wallaby arching its neck and curling itself into his hand, its long lashes brushing against the open palm.

It’s then that Harry realises the others are slowly migrating towards them, one coming close enough to bump its head into Louis’ back, nipping at his top. Louis lets out a startled laugh, turning about and saying, “Well, hello there,” in this delighted voice, and Harry sits back, holding his camera up, card filling with just as much boy as marsupial.

There are four now gathered about Louis, completely ignoring Harry and hopping over his legs like he’s a mere inconvenience more than anything else. Harry’s about to suggest heading to the next area, stop monopolising the wallabies as there are children coming through, when Louis turns to him, looking up beseechingly. He has one of the little wallaby paws clutched to his chest.

“Can I keep her?” he says, whisper pitching higher, eyes large and guileless. “Please?”

“Yes,” Harry says immediately and Louis’ expression drops as he lets out a huff of laughter.

Enunciating each syllable, he says, “You’re a liar,” and with a final scratching pet to each of the wallabies, he stands up, brushing the twigs and tanbark off his shorts.

Sitting up too, Harry shakes himself of the forest debris, slinging his camera back around. The wallabies look up expectantly.

“I’m not a liar,” Harry says. “I always tell the truth. I don’t even know what a lie is.”

“More lies from the lying liar,” Louis sing-songs, before turning back to the wallabies. “Goodbye, darlings.”

They don’t follow them to the gate, but they do seem to look at Louis a little wistfully as they depart.

*

The nocturnal house is cool and dark, and filled with the sounds of tiny footsteps and hushed whispers. Louis presses his face up against the glass to catch the fluttering movements of the pygmy bats, and the scrambling of the brushtail possums and sugar gliders with babies clinging to their backs. He leaves sticky imprints on the glass and tugs Harry close to see the snakes coiled around the forked branches of their dark den, demanding he take pictures of strips of shed skin and darting tongues.

By the time they finally reach the crocodiles, there’s one lying still behind the glass. Louis kneels down to look it in its half-lidded eye, and Harry takes a picture of his reflection on its reptilian skin, the bumps and plates blending into his hairline. It looks more like he’s found his kin than offering up a challenge, but when he looks up at Harry with his bright eyes and sharp teeth, he thinks he could be a lion or a wolf, too.

The monsoon land has them trekking through the aviary; “The biggest in the southern hemisphere,” Louis reads as they ascend from the forest floor to tree-top views. The canopies are filled with a cacophony of chattering birds, flashes of colour and movement that Harry glimpses through the trees and tries to capture with his camera. Louis gets bored easily, swinging himself up on the fences and barriers while waiting for Harry to get the perfect shot, and then sprinting ahead as soon as Harry looks up from the viewfinder, leaving him to jog after him, grin caught in a breath stuck in his throat.

They pass through the aquarium, tiger and saw sharks gliding overhead and manta rays slipping by, baring their gills, and just missing algae and coral.

Louis squawks with the pelicans at Goose Lagoon and Harry takes a photo of him leaning over the railing, stretching his neck, his mouth open like he’s trying to swallow the sun.

When they finally make it to the flight deck to watch the rangers talk with the birds of prey, Harry has sweated through his shirt and can feel drowsiness touching at his joints, while Louis is still jigging his leg where it rests next to Harry’s. There’s a part of him that wants to wrestle Louis down, pin him to his chest until he stills and calms, and another wholly different part that just wants to sit back and bask in his lovely, wriggling, relentless presence.

It turns out the birds of prey display is the only time Louis can focus for more than two minutes. He holds his breath as the barking owl swoops over their heads, close enough that its feathers brush along their hair, and hits Harry’s knee every time the white-bellied sea eagle spreads its impressive expanse of wings.

“I’m getting it,” Harry hisses, shutter turning in an aperture click, but Louis just shushes him, then laughs at the ruffled tawny frog-mouth tilting its head like a puppet.

Harry captures him like that, rapt attention and eyes wide, and then another of Louis flipping him off, before directing his camera back to the birds.

As the show ends, Louis claps enthusiastically, then drags Harry over to the ranger, who’s standing with an ambivalent wedge-tail eagle and surrounded by a gaggle of children.

Harry rolls his eyes as Louis says, “Get a good one,” when it’s finally his turn, pulling on the leather glove.

Without preamble, the eagle hops gracelessly onto Louis’ arm and Louis coos at it, rewarded by a proud ruffle of feathers and a nudge to his shoulder.

“Careful,” the ranger says with a laugh, adjusting the bird. “I think she likes you! Or, whatever you had for breakfast.”

“That would be sausages,” Louis says, grinning, and the eagle bobs its head in agreement. “But the feeling is definitely mutual.”

Harry’s lens finds a shot with a glimpse of midday sun, of the head of the eagle dipped in bronze and amber, its hooked beak closed and tilted up to meet Louis’ nose, and broad wings pressed to its sides. Its golden eye looks up, piercing and focused, and Louis looks back — for a moment, for that _tiny_ split second — calm and serene and in awe of the magnificent creature that’s granted him the honour of holding it.

When he lowers the camera, Harry’s throat feels tight and there’s a tremor of energy, like wings brushing at his neck and the thrumming of a hummingbird heart in his chest. It seems like a long time since he’s felt this way.

They thank the ranger and Louis reluctantly relinquishes the eagle, which stares at them before they leave, tall and regal on its feather-tufted legs.

“So,” Louis says, as they head towards the main station, “have you found your muse yet?”

“Are you digging for compliments, Tomlinson?” Harry says, nudging his hip against Louis’, a grin on his face. “Do you want to be my kept boy that inspires my genius?”

Louis laughs loud enough to be sarcastic. “First, I think you might be using the term ‘genius’ pretty loosely. And second—,” he stops, turning in front of Harry and grinding a finger into the middle of his chest, “what makes you think you have what it takes to keep me?”

He’s looking up at Harry, wicked gleam in his eyes like a dare, and wicked smile on his lips, and Harry has always been a little too eager to prove himself.

“You think I don’t?” he says, voice lowering. He steps forward so that Louis’ finger digs into his chest, and the incessant sun is blocked out by his shadow. “Except I wouldn’t want to keep you, would I?” Louis’ smile instantly dips a little, finger withdrawing, but Harry clasps his wrist, holding it to his chest. “I wouldn’t want to keep you, because I’d make you want to stay.”

Louis whole face scrunches up a little, like he’s unsure what emotion he wants to express, before he pulls out of Harry’s grasp, snorting. “Well someone’s got tickets on themselves, don’t they?” he says eventually, and Harry laughs, loud and unabashed.

“Yeah, well, I’ll give you a discount price,” Harry says with a wink, and Louis’ face screws up again, but this time with suppressed laughter.

There are families chattering around them, burnt out from heat and building humidity, but everything on the peripheral — everything aside from this boy in front of him — seems distant; muted.

“What _are_ you talking about?” Louis says, laughter escaping between words, and something like joy with it. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“I’m an artist; sense is relative,” Harry says, and he ducks down and kisses Louis on the mouth before he can object, lips pressing briefly but firmly.

When he pulls away, Louis squints his eyes up at him, but he lets Harry take his hand, slightly clammy with sweat.

“Come on,” Harry says, tugging on his fingers. “Are you hungry?”

Louis slips their fingers together, slotting between the gaps and curling around his like a possum’s tail around a branch.

Feet stepping back, toe to heel, Louis retreats until their arms are a taut line between them, flung over an ocean under a burning sky, that Harry can’t remember casting. He’s hooked now, though, and he stumbles forward, legs as unsteady as the stuttering laughter caught on his tongue, and the sun arcs high overhead, sweeping through its fiery, endless loop.

*

They have lunch in the picnic area by the main station, watching the emus and wallabies meander around the fenceline and laze under the trees. Harry’s finishing his salad and Louis is taking the last bite of his curried egg sandwich, mindless of the mess he’s making down his vest. Louis had originally wanted a meat pie, but it’s much too hot for it, and Harry had coaxed him into something lighter with the promise of a Maxibon or a Golden Gaytime for afters.

Louis dabs at his mouth with his napkin when he’s done, then rumples it up in a ball and wedges it under Harry’s thigh.

“So it doesn’t fly away,” Louis says with wide eyes. “Wouldn’t want to litter now, would we, Harold?”

“There’s a bin literally five metres away,” Harry says, but Louis is already hopping up, crumbs falling to the ground.

“You’re such a brat!” Harry calls out to him as he heads towards the bathrooms. Louis just flips him the bird without looking back.

By the time he returns, Harry’s finished his sandwich and has a Golden Gaytime in one hand and a Maxibon in the other. Louis takes so long deliberating between the two that Harry’s afraid that they’ll melt in his hands, before offering to swap halfway.

They head back to the car and sit up on the bonnet, the metal burning under their bums despite the shade, and Harry makes a mental note to put on more sunscreen.

When they exchange ice creams, Louis’s eaten the biscuit part of the Maxibon and Harry’s left with broken chocolate and ice cream melting through. Louis just shrugs when he points it out and says that he should’ve said before he began eating, and _it’s too late now, Harry, you can’t un-eat something_.

He watches Louis lick the toffee and vanilla running tracks down his hands, not quite fast enough to catch it before it drips onto the car. Louis lets out a little puff of frustration when it happens again and Harry’s so caught up in his struggle that he neglects his own ice cream and a glob lands on his shorts, seeping through the material.

“Good thing we’re going swimming, yeah?” Louis says, holding up sticky fingers when he’s done, wriggling them under Harry’s nose, until Harry grabs them and squishes their dirty hands together. Wrinkling his nose, Louis says, “Gross.”

“You’re gross,” Harry says cleverly, sticking his tongue out, before hopping off the car, Louis following with a graceful landing beside him.

They clean up as best they can and drive the short distance to the springs next door. Louis smothers himself in sunscreen without too much complaint, even when Harry volunteers to do his back and spends a gratuitous amount of time smoothing his hands down the tanned expanse of his back.

It’s not too crowded, probably due to the time of day, only small knots of pre-teens and families wrapped in towels and having picnics spread out on the grass. Having been here before, Louis leads Harry a ways down some stairs, past a small rocky spring to a crystal clear pool that glints a pristine South Pacific turquoise. There’s the rumble of the waterfall behind them, and birds chirping through the overhanging pandanas trees, and the splashing of kids play-fighting with their foam noodles, and Harry feels like his bones are light enough for him to take flight, fuelled by ice cream and dappled sunlight and the expectant smile crinkling the corners of Louis’ eyes.

“Are you an all right swimmer?” Louis says. “It’s pretty deep out, you won’t be able to touch the bottom.”

“I can swim,” Harry says, and then, knees already bending in anticipation, “Race you to the other side!”

He hurtles over the rocks, slippery with moss, Louis yelling behind him, and then trudges through the warm, shallow water until it’s deep enough for him to dive into, the sounds above turning into a rush of gurgling thunder in his ears. The waters sluices clean and sharp along his body as he kicks forward, and when he opens his eyes under the water he can see small fish scattering beneath him, flitting away in startled clusters.

Suddenly, he feels Louis’ strong grip on his ankle, yanking him down, and he swallows a mouthful of earthy water that spurts up through his nose as he resurfaces.

“ _Hey_ ,” Harry says, throat burning, but Louis is cackling and then kicking ahead, splashing Harry in the face as he races past.

After nearly crashing into a group of kids with dark eyes and auburn curls, who scream and dart away, oblivious to his apologies, Harry finally makes it to the edge of the pool where Louis is almost curled up in on himself laughing in the shallow water. He wants to feel annoyed, his competitive side rankled at the _unfair_ and _unjust_ tactics used by his opponent, but it’s like— 

The light refracts off the water and moves across Louis’ skin, darkening the ink of his tattoos, and he looks beautiful, dazzling, still that god laughing down on all the destruction he's caused. And Harry’s heart is caught somewhere in his breathless chest, like it’s become tangled amidst the veins and arteries and ribs whilst trying to make room for wet boys on warm, summery days.

Harry swims forward, and Louis is still collapsed in what seems like a uncontrollable cycle of giggles that seem to start up again every time he looks at Harry’s face.

“Stop it!” Louis shrieks through his laughter when Harry moves closer still, trying to squirm away, but Harry keeps crowding him in, nudging him backwards until they’re under a path of shadow, hidden by the long pandanas leaves.

“Harry,” Louis says, the last of the giggles petering out into heavy breaths that send out ripples in the water from his moving chest. “ _Harry_ ,” he says again, and it’s quieter, and there are drops of spring water clinging to his long lashes, dappled viridian light on his shoulders and cheeks; sparkling, blinding.

Harry’s hands find Louis’ waist, looking large and distorted beneath the water, and he pulls him forward gently, until he can sense the sweetness on his breath and the press of ribs rising and falling under cool skin. Still slow, Harry leans closer, brushing their lips together, and then again when Louis lets out a short breath. Louis’ own hands come up to cradle Harry's face between their grasp, pulling him forward so unexpectedly that Harry’s feet unbalance on the sliding pebbles below, heart skipping.

Louis’ mouth parts beneath his, and Harry wastes no time slotting their lips together, tugging at Louis’ supple bottom lip and sucking it gently into his mouth, drawing an unbidden whimper. Louis digs his thumbs into Harry’s jaw and he licks in, tongue tracing purposefully along the roof of his mouth and the underside of his teeth. The warm water laps arrhythmically at their torsos with each tug and meeting of lips and tongue, swaying them together, and Harry begins to feel a little frantic with it, hands sliding up and down Louis’ back before steadying themselves on the sweet swell of his arse, wanting to pull them flush together until there’s not one single drop of water between them. He lets out a moan when Louis bites at his lip, kneading helplessly at his arse, and then again as he feels his hardness beneath his shorts.

Pulling away with a gasp, Louis touches at Harry’s face and his neck, gripping reflexively at his dripping hair.

“Harry,” he says, words shuttered around each breath. “Harry, got to be quiet. There are people around.”

“ _Fuck_.” Harry can distantly hear the sounds of laughter and splashing water over his own thudding heartbeat, and he pulls himself away reluctantly, even though every cell in his body is yearning to be near.

“Just,” Louis says, hand still curled around Harry’s neck, “just like this, yeah?”

And, before Harry can even comprehend it, Louis slips his other hand down to palm at the bulge at the front of Harry’s swim trunks. 

“ _Louis_ —” Harry hisses, but his hips are already arching forward in betrayal.

“Shh, it’s okay,” Louis says, and now Harry can see the spark in his eye, the curl of mischief at his red-bitten lips.

Louis drags his palm up Harry’s length, shaping his hand around him, squeezing lightly, and making Harry’s head tip forward with a soft groan.

There’s heat pooling quickly in his gut, and a prickle of panic in his neck at the thought of being seen, and Louis is working him over in such light, teasing strokes that Harry has to grit his teeth with it. 

He tries to move one of his hands to Louis’ cock, but Louis shakes his head, saying, “Not yet, remember?” and Harry grips at his arse in frustrated arousal instead.

Harry settles his other hand on Louis’ waist once again, wrapping around him and pulling him close enough to mouth at his pretty collarbones. He drags his teeth along the tanned skin, sucking a bruise into the base of Louis’ throat, which earns him a slap to his balls that’s probably more pleasant than intended.

He feels so close now, shifting his hips faster into Louis’ palm, the water dragging at his shorts, adding friction to his aching cock.

“Are you going to come?” Louis says, and his voice is low, but still teasing. “Anyone could see, you know?”

Harry can still hear people playing and shouting in the water, and his hips stutter forward suddenly, bringing him to the precipice of his orgasm.

But then, Louis says blithely, “And we can’t have that, can we?” 

Harry doesn’t have time to react before Louis pulls his hand away, dislodging himself from Harry’s embrace.

“What?” Harry says, not quite comprehending the turn of events. His cock feels almost painfully hard from where it’s tenting underneath his swim trunks, and his brain is a fuzz of confusion.

Louis puts his hands on his hips and says with a mocking smile, “Jesus, Harry. You didn’t actually think I was going to let you come in a public swimming area, did you? That’s just _unsanitary_. There are _children_ present.”

“I hate you,” Harry says, burying his head in his hands, and _God_ , he hates it, but Louis is right.

Louis laughs loudly as he swims away, but it’s still a few good minutes before Harry’s in a decent enough state to turn around.

When Harry catches up, Louis is lying on his back in the water, eyes closed against the bright sky, and he looks so peaceful and nothing like the wilful god that Harry knows he really is. It doesn’t stop him from wrapping an arm around his stomach and plunging them both into the water, revelling in the piercing scream that carries out over the lake.

*

It’s nearly closing time, and they’re sitting on their towels in the grass, letting the sun dry out their drenched hair and swim trunks. They’d got Picnic Drumsticks from the kiosk, but the wrappers are now discarded next to them, and Harry is beginning to feel the heaviness of fatigue in his bones turn leaden.

People are starting to walk past them, heading for the entrance and home, but he’s content to stay here a while longer and dry away the day, and Louis, too, has made no indication of moving.

“Tell me something about yourself,” Harry says suddenly, and Louis looks at him derisively.

“I don’t like that,” he says. 

Harry frowns. "Don't like what? Telling people about yourself?” he says, and Louis lets out a small sigh.

“You think you get to know people that way? By stocking up on facts?”

Harry’s silent, still not sure if this side of Louis is antagonistic or simply straightforward, and focuses on the pieces of grass seed between his fingers, twisting and tying them in knots.

“I mean,” Louis says, after a pause, “I just think that you don’t really get to know people that way. I could tell you I’m 1/16th Belgian, but what does that say about me?”

“Well,” Harry says, considering, not glancing up from his grass seed art, “how do you think people get to know each other, then? If not talking.”

“By doing things together,” Louis says, and it’s a surprise when he reaches out his hand, curling his fingers around Harry’s wrist. He grins, mouth quirking in already familiar mischief. “By having a wank with them. By fucking around in public swimming areas. See, now I know just how bloody shameless you are.”

Harry laughs quietly. He drops the grass seed art he’s been creating and turns his palm up, holding their hands together loosely.

“Yeah, okay. But that’s just sex stuff, isn’t it? I think— I think things go deeper than that,” Harry says.

Louis stares at him, but he doesn’t pull his hand away. He doesn’t hold on any tighter, but he doesn’t pull away, and surely that must mean something.

After a moment, Louis says, “Did you know, when we were getting off out there, and I told you that anyone could see us, you actually slowed down for a bit? You were so close but you slowed down, like you almost wanted it to happen. You wanted us to get caught.”

Harry can feel himself going beet red at that, but Louis barrels on regardless. “What does _that_ mean, Harry? You got a voyeurism kink? Or is it about you showing off your sexual prowess or whatever? Or do you get off on humiliation, is that it? I’m not—” he stops himself; shuffles forward until their crossed knees are touching, no longer wet, but now sun hot. “I’m not judging you or anything. Like, obviously I got off from it, too. But like. How deep do you want to go?”

It’s 27 degrees out, and there are small freckles along the cut of Louis’ cheekbones, and the skin of his shoulders is pinking under his tan, and that might be expected, but nothing else about this boy is. Nothing else has ever felt so beautifully, unexpectedly unpredictable.

“Can I kiss you?” Harry says, and in a second Louis’ face shifts from piercing to bemusement to crumpling into a shout of laughter.

“Yeah, go on then,” he says, mouth easing once more into a smirk. “If it’s good enough, maybe we’ll actually get kicked out this time.”

Harry pushes up onto his knees, crowding in on Louis until he falls back against the towel, laughing beneath him, mouth wide and canines sharp. He kisses him, lips soft and gentle until the laughter on Louis’ lips settles into a smile against his, and his hands find purchase at his face, bringing him closer. Cupping the curve of Louis’ hip, Harry grips at the smooth, sun-kissed skin, and feels Louis arch into the touch; hears him let out a content sigh that Harry pockets — aims to keep like a fact jotted down in a journal — and wonders what else that might mean.

*

The drive back is quiet, the radio playing low in the background and Louis dozing on and off in the passenger seat, while the scenery changes from bushland to rufous dirt to approaching civilisation. The road is filled with people making their way back into the city, children tuckered out in the back, heads lolling against seatbelts, and it’s not the first time Harry wishes he were five again and could curl up small within a solid, careful embrace and let himself be carried home. But when he looks at Louis — slumped back in his seat, and eyelids heavy and carrying the day — more than anything, he feels a burning sense of fierce protection taking root in his tired bones.

They pick up Thai on the way back to the hotel, and Louis doesn’t comment on the fact that Harry makes no move to take Louis to his own place. They take turns ducking into the shower, washing off the last of the sunscreen and spring water clinging to their skin, and by the time they make it on the bed, cross-legged with takeaway in their hands, they’re barely awake enough to hold their sporks.

They eat in silence, a movie playing low in the background that Harry can’t bring himself to focus on, and every now and then leaning over to pick at each other’s food, stealing pieces of chicken (Louis) and broccoli (Harry). Even with lethargy stiffening his movements and grease-stained mouths, Harry still wants to pull Louis in; kiss him like this, all soft and quiet and pliant, until their air runs together and soothes the ache blooming in his chest.

When they finally turn in, Harry stripping down unabashedly to his boxers, and Louis in a borrowed shirt and joggers that fit wondrously, deliciously, over his curve of his bum, Harry does just that, blaming it on exhaustion weakening his inhibitions.

Louis bats lightly at his chest, but when Harry makes to pull back, he lets out a small whine, fingers digging into Harry’s shoulders and holding him close. They kiss lazily, Harry wrapping himself around Louis — a hand pressing him in at the small of his back, and the other at his face, tilting his mouth up so that they slot together, moving smooth and wet and unhurried in the silent dark.

As Louis’s lips begin to slacken, and his breathing slows, Harry says, can barely help it, “Can I get you off?” and Louis laughs rough and low and shaking in his chest.

“You can try,” he says in that same tone, and that’s enough for Harry to slide himself underneath the sheets and position himself between Louis’ legs, elbows planted either side of his hips.

He bites softly as Louis’ stomach, and it jumps as Louis laughs again, hand settling over the sheets to pat at the bump of Harry’s head.

“Aren’t you tired?” he says, voice slow, tongue dipped in molasses. “Don’t you want to sleep?”

Harry shakes his head, feeling the sheets drag at his hair. He presses another kiss to Louis’ stomach, a nip to his hip.

“Want this more,” he says into the smooth, soft skin, and he breathes in the lavender smell of the hotel soap, and Harry’s own cologne lingering on his shirt, and yeah, right now, he can’t think of a reason that he’ll ever not want this.

He drags the joggers down so that they sit under Louis’ bum, and in the complete blackness he can’t see much, but he can feel Louis’ dick, mostly soft against his thigh, and he can feel the rise and fall of his abdomen, breaths still teetering on the precipice between asleep and awake. Harry’s never done this — never blown someone on the verge of unconsciousness — but the quiet is lying lovely under his skin, and Louis is lying soft and still beneath him, and it feels natural to take his dick in hand and guide it towards his mouth; hold the head between his lips and breathe him in.

With eyes fluttering closed, he sucks gently at the tip, tongue flicking lightly at the underside and hand moving like a caress over Louis’ length. Louis feels warm and heavy in his mouth, and Harry slips down deeper, letting Louis’ cock glide against the slick of his tongue and letting his mouth wet at the foreskin. When he pulls back, lapping easily at the tip once more, he feels Louis shift underneath him, settling in with a sigh, even as his dick fully hardens within Harry’s palm, veins filling out with arousal.

There’s no conscious thought in the way Harry thumbs slowly down the underside of Louis’ cock, almost deferential in his touch; not in the way he mouths at the top, moving his lips languidly like he would over his neck or chest or the inside of his thigh. The foreskin is pulled back and Louis sighs again, a little more shaky, but just as soft, and his hand settles over the sheets into the dip of Harry’s neck, not pulling or pushing, but just there — just present.

Holding on Louis’ hip, the bone fitting into the curl of his palm, Harry moves to take more of him in, dipping down until the head hits the back of his mouth, and then further still, the muscles of his throat fluttering against the invading thickness. Louis’ fingers rub at the back of Harry’s neck, almost absently, and when Harry’s nose finally brushes against the curls of dark hair at the base, they tighten briefly, nails scratching along the cotton, and precome dribbling from the head.

Distantly aware of his own cock thickening against the sheets, Harry raises his head until only the tip rests in his mouth, and then lowers himself once more, repeating at a gradual, even pace until his throat relaxes to accommodate Louis’ girth and there’s saliva and precome wetted messily down Louis’ cock and his own fingers where they’ve stilled.

He feels full like this, Louis’ cock filling out his mouth, fucked out on the tremors that are beginning to run through Louis’ otherwise dormant body, and the feel of the sheets where they pull across the moving muscles of his shoulders every time he lifts his head. Louis’ fingers are still at his neck, clenching reflexively with every bob of Harry’s head, and Harry can’t help the moan he lets out around Louis’ dick, his hips pressing needy into the mattress.

As the ache of his jaw begins to border on unbearable, Louis shudders under his hands, a whispered, rasped “Harry,” and a short tug to his neck, and then he’s coming down Harry’s throat, pulsing warmth, and salt and bitterness painting the inside of Harry’s mouth. Harry continues to swallow him down until Louis digs his nails more sharply into Harry’s neck, too lazy to try and pull him off. 

He releases Louis’ softening cock reluctantly from his mouth, and tucks him back into his joggers, before crawling back up the sheets, his own erection bobbing urgently between his legs. He finds Louis with closed eyes, still half-asleep, but with a flush to his cheeks and a smile tilting at his mouth. Harry kisses him, just a press of mouths, and brushes his dick against Louis’ hip, trying not to just rut there until he comes.

“Want some help?” Louis says, voice dripping through a sieve of exhaustion. He makes no effort to move, and Harry huffs a laugh into his shoulder.

“You’ll fall asleep on my dick,” Harry says, wincing at the rawness of his throat.

“Probably,” Louis says. “Can give you a handy? Maybe.”

He shuffles onto his side, and Harry holds him by the waist as he works a hand into Harry’s boxers, sluggish and clumsy.

Face slumped into the pillows, eyes still closed, Louis moves his hand halfheartedly over Harry’s aching dick, and Harry almost wants to laugh again, except it’s choked out by the feeling expanding beneath his ribs, something irrepressible. It’s kind of how he feels sometimes when a scene snaps into frame and the light hits his lens just right; a perfect captured moment, alive and still at the same time.

Louis falls asleep with his hand still curled around Harry’s cock. Harry tucks himself back inside his boxers and slides down the mattress until they’re face to face, and Louis’ tempered breaths fan too warm over his skin.

He watches the moonlight carve its pattern of light over Louis’ cheek, his shoulder, in mottled lace anglais. And even as each cell and synapse seems to be shutting down, pulling him rapidly towards sleep, he can barely close his eyes.

*

Harry wakes early in the morning with a smoothie craving and a beautiful boy sprawled next to him on his stomach, face buried in his pillow and sheets nestled low on the curve of his back. In the dim light, Harry can see each dip and dimple where they’ve sought to bury themselves, and the soft valley of his spine, which Harry’s thumb traces subconsciously.

Louis snuffles in his sleep at the disturbance, makes a small whistling noise that has Harry holding back a laugh. Placing a kiss on his shoulder, Harry slowly rises and gets himself ready — toilet and teeth and wretched clothes — then grabs his phone and wallet before slipping out the door.

The air is cooler when he steps outside, a stark contrast to the piercing, draining heat of the day before. There are dark clouds edging the sky in the distance, and it turns the ocean black and grey and unsteady before him, waves gathering under the sweet wind. He remembers what Trish has said about the end of the dry and the approaching monsoon that would soon flood the city in tropical storms, and suddenly the clouds look like the smoke after a fire before a hurricane, ready to flush out the build up, the dust, the year.

The esplanade is quiet as he makes his way down, only a bare few passing cars and trucks running errands, and it’s strange here, how everything seems to run on its own time; like the earth itself has paused its constant orbit in order to seek the sun. His own hometown isn’t crowded and filled with rushing life by any means, but there’s something about this isolated, northern city that feels dipped in sticky honey, swimming between scenes, dry to wet to dry, and insects buzzing in an endless stream in the background.

When he gets to Boost Juice, only a slight sheen of sweat covering his bare arms, he orders two smoothies from the young girl at the counter — something with spinach, pineapple, banana and coconut for himself, and mango, passionfruit and sorbet for Louis.

While fruit is being chucked into a blender, he sits down at one of the benches and makes a call to Leigh-Anne, feeling a little guilty that he hasn’t yet checked up on her. She answers on the fifth ring, and the hello she sends through sounds grumpy and drained.

“Hey,” Harry says. “Sorry, did I wake you?”

“Yeah,” she says, voice hushed and sharp. There’s a rustling noise through the speaker, some barely-heard sound of another person talking, and then Leigh-Anne saying, “Sorry, hang on,” before the unmistakeable pause that accompanies one leaving a room.

“Sorry,” Harry says again.

“It’s okay,” Leigh-Anne says, through a yawn, and the line crackling and cutting as she moves. “How you doing, babe?”

“Yeah, yeah, good,” Harry says. He traces a finger down the grain of the wood of the table, blunt nail catching at the grooves. “Just thought I’d call, make sure you’re okay. Not murdered or anything.”

“Cheers,” Leigh-Anne says with a laugh. “Yeah, not yet dead. I’m beginning to think this boy wouldn’t be able to hurt a fly, to be honest.”

“Yeah?” Harry says, smile spreading.

“Yeah,” Leigh-Anne says, before letting out a small groan. “God, Harry, he’s really fit, too. Like, the _fittest_ , in both senses of the word. I cannot begin to describe his stamina. And he’s so _polite_. He bloody pulled out my chair when we had dinner last night and I almost didn’t sit down, I was so in shock.”

Harry laughs at that, the sound cutting in where the blenders have stopped. “Good. You deserve to be treated right.”

“Don’t need you to be telling me that,” Leigh-Anne says. “I’m considering this karmic retribution for all the knobs I’ve seen before.”

The girl at the counter waves him over to retrieve his smoothies, and he arranges them in one hand to take home, before returning to the conversation.

“Well, I’m glad,” Harry says, heading back to the road. “Have you got plans today?”

There’s the sound of a fridge opening and closing. “Mhmm. Going to head to the aquarium, Indo Pacific Marine I think it’s called, then head to the water park. Although, looking outside, I’m not sure it’s really the day for swimming.”

“I’m sure it’ll clear up,” Harry says, but looking up across the ocean, it feels like the sky has only got darker.

“You can come and join us if you like? I feel a bit bad about leaving you alone.”

“No, don’t worry about me,” Harry says. “Like, I’m not alone or anything. I’m being taken care of.”

“Oh, you’re being taken care of, are you?” Leigh-Anne drawls.

With a small huff of laughter, Harry says, “Well, sometimes it seems to be the other way around, but yeah. Don’t you worry about me.”

They’ve spent so much time together these past couple weeks, that Harry can picture exactly the look on her face — that fondness and unintentional mothering.

“Promise that you’ll tell me all about it tomorrow?” she says, and her words almost don’t even register, because the hotel is just up ahead now, and he can’t explain it, the kick of adrenalin and the sparks flickering along his veins, like the precursor to a thunderstorm.

“Yeah,” Harry says after a pause. “Yeah, I will. Promise.”

They say goodbye and ring off, and Harry makes his way through the atrium of the hotel, up the glass lift and into the hotel room, counting every step.

Louis is sitting up in bed, rubbing at his eyes, and when he sees Harry, the sleepy downward turn of his mouth slips into something like a smile, eyes crinkling at the corners, slow and soft.

Harry kneels on the bed and shuffles over, pressing Louis’ smoothie into his hand. Louis’ chin raises in a silent request, and Harry’s hand, cold from the drinks, cups his jaw, and he kisses him close-mouthed and sweet.

“Morning,” Louis says, nose trailing down the side of Harry’s cheek, lips placing a kiss to the pulse of his neck.

“Morning,” Harry says, and tries not to think how it might be their last.

*

“ _War bunkers_?” Louis says, accent shaping his mouth before it turns into a frown. “Why would you want to see some old war bunkers?”

They’re cruising down the Arnhem Highway, and the further south they head, the more the dark clouds seem to abate, the oncoming storm for the moment put on pause. The scenery looks much the same as yesterday, red earth burning into dry scrub, and that washed-out blue sky lit overhead like the hottest part of a flame.

Needing to get back for the barbecue, they’d decided on a short day — the crocodile cruise and then maybe Windows of the Wetlands — before Harry had remembered what Jai had told him about the old abandoned war bunkers out near Howard Springs, rusted metal roofs bleeding into the bushland.

“I just want to take some photos,” Harry says patiently, as they speed down the road. “It’ll be interesting, I think you’ll like it, too. It’s like— have you even seen those pictures of old towns and buildings that have been reclaimed by nature? There’s just something really other-worldly about them. Like, a glimpse of a future without humanity, or just the idea that even without humans, the world will still carry on.”

“I’m not sure that’s interesting, rather than incredibly morbid,” Louis says drily, pressing his nose to the window until it makes a little snout. “But we’ll still see the crocodiles?”

“We’ll still see the crocodiles,” Harry says with an eye roll behind his sunnies, despite the grin on his face. “We’ll see them, then we’ll check out the bunkers, then head back for the barbecue.”

“You sure you want to go?” Louis says, and when he turns to look at Harry, the tip of his nose is pink from where it was pressed.

Slowly, Harry says, “ _Yeah_.” He reaches out to tap Lois on the nose, but gets his hand swatted away. “Unless you don’t want me to go?”

Louis shrugs, pulling his knees up to his chest. “Nah. Whatever you want. It’s your last day, it’s your choice how you spend it.”

“I’d like to spend it with you,” Harry says, and when he reaches over to rub a thumb over Louis’ knee, this time Louis holds it there, fingers curling around the digit. “Besides, your friends seem kind of cool? A little scary, but cool.”

Louis laughs, squeezing Harry’s thumb just on this side of too tight, before releasing it. “Don’t tell them that, they just might believe it.”

“You didn’t see them before you came downstairs,” Harry says.

Louis just shakes his head. “You’ll see. Zayn’s a huge softie underneath and Niall’s practically an angel.”

“And you?” Harry prompts, and Louis tilts his head thoughtfully.

“Me? No, I really am as badass as I come across,” he says, and it’s much too pompous for someone decked out in denim cutoffs.

“So, not at all?” Harry says with a grin, and earns a punch in the shoulder for it.

The turn off for the jumping crocodile cruise appears up ahead before he can retaliate, and he parks them between a caravan and a tour bus, hoping for some shade.

Harry had made Louis sunscreen himself before they left, tutting only slightly at the pink on his shoulders, so he just has to grab his camera before they buy their tickets. He tries on an Akubra from the shop while he’s at it, and even though Louis groans and mocks, he decides he likes how it looks, and chooses one with a little speckled feather and adjusts his bun so it sits firmly on his head.

The Adelaide River Queen II is a two-level vessel, and Louis grabs Harry’s wrist, dragging them past the air-conditioned lower deck to the open air canopied top-deck, making it clear that this is not open for discussion. It’s crowded, filled to capacity thanks to the tour bus, and Harry fits himself around Louis’ back, bracketing him within his arms, hands holding onto the rail, and probably standing much closer than necessary.

He smells like sunscreen without the strawberry scent of yesterday, and underneath that something more distinct — barley and musk and fresh laundry that’s dried hot from the sun. He smells like he was made to be wrapped in Harry’s arms — made for comfort — and Harry wants to bury himself in his neck and breathe him in until he’s coded into his lungs like bonding atoms, and growing in his bones like marrow.

Yes, he’s definitely much too close.

Louis throws a look over his shoulder, eyebrow raised like he can read Harry’s thoughts, but then he simply arches forward on the railing, grinding his bum back on Harry’s crotch.

“Oi!” Harry says, and it’s loud enough that a few people close by turn to look at them curiously.

“ _Oi_ ,” he says again, much quieter, leaning in to whisper into Louis’ ear, trying to ignore the resulting pressure. “None of that. Don’t forget that yesterday you didn’t get me off — twice.”

Louis utterly fails in trying to hide his laughter, lips slipping up his teeth and cheeks bunching up with glee. “Christ, I completely forgot,” he says, and _really?_

“You fell asleep with your hand on my dick,” Harry says, and he has to hide his face into Louis’ shoulder, Akubra sliding back on his head, trying to suppress the surely wild whoop of laughter that’s building inside of him, rattling around unrestrained and untethered.

“You should’ve just—” and then Louis does a decidedly child-unfriendly gesture with his fist, making Harry choke on his laughter and forcing him to grab Louis’ hand and hold it to his chest.

“I’ll remember that next time,” he says, and the speakers turn on before Louis can respond.

A welcoming voice crackles through, giving a little history and reminding them to be safe, and then they’re off, slugging slowly through the water.

The trees are a vibrant hue along the river’s bank, but the water is a murky brownish-green that doesn’t look like it would be pleasant to swim in. It doesn’t seem to deter the wildlife, however, and it isn’t long before Harry spots a couple of herons standing daintily on branches stretched out over the water, and few circling sea eagles keeping an eye on the proceedings.

Harry steps back then, slinging his camera around and shooting over Louis’ shoulder, click after click. It’s through his lens that he spots the first crocodile, ridges of its back just skimming the edge of the water where it’s stilled, almost more flora than fauna.

“Look,” Harry says, pointing, and Louis follows his gaze, a smile lifting the corners of his mouth, and he tips forward against the railing like he’s trying to meet it.

The woman with the microphone explains that these are saltwater crocs, more dangerous than the freshwater variety, but right now, watching them float lazily through the water, eyes half-lidded against the sun, they seem more like cats basking between play and dinner; like you could almost run a hand down their knobbed back or the soft of their bellies, and they’d purr back in content.

When the feeding is finally about to begin, Harry’s card is already filled with sleepy eyes peeking above mud-coloured water with their narrow vertical slits, and birds sitting thin and tall above the treeline. The spot Louis’s chosen proves advantageous as the ranger positions herself less than a metre away, chicken meat in a bucket beside her.

Louis has been practically vibrating, bouncing on his toes and wriggling against Harry’s body as the boat heads slowly down the river, but when the meat is finally held out over the water from the impressive height of the top deck, the energy cuts to tension and anticipation.

The first glimpse of the crocodile’s body shooting out of the water, its large, hulking body propelled like an arrow, has Louis’ leaning so far over the railing that Harry drops his camera to curl an arm around him lest he fall in.

“Careful,” Harry says, but Louis just twists in his arms, saying, “Did you see, did you see? Did you get it? Tell me you got that.”

His fingers are digging a little into Harry’s arms, and Harry doesn’t have to lift his aviators to tell how wide his eyes have got, eyebrows raising over the rims. Harry ducks his chin to kiss him quick, the brim of his new hat brushing Louis’ hair, before his hands tug at his hips, spinning him back around.

“Don’t worry, I’ll get it,” he says, not able to help nosing at the edge of Louis’ hairline, where it’s warm and a little damp with sweat.

Louis elbows him in the stomach, saying, “Not if you keep doing that, you won’t,” and Harry lets out a laugh into the flyaway strands, before releasing him, picking up his camera once more.

He catches the next jump, the jaws of the crocodile opening wide and vicious and then snapping quick as a fox trap around the carcass, crushing bone and cartilage. He catches the snout splitting the surface, water arcing like a bubble before it breaks, and the white scales of its belly smooth under the sunlight, and there’s something raw coursing through him too, a little wild in his fingers and the nerves of his neck. His heart thumps with every leap and his ribs struggle to contain the heavy rhythm.

“They’re older than the dinosaurs,” Louis says to him later, as they’re reading about the exploding crocodile population. “I don’t think people understand that. They’re fucking _survivors_ and it’s fucking amazing how they’ve taken back their land. You’ve got to respect that. They’re _demanding_ respect.”

Watching him, there’s a kind of zeal in his eyes behind his dark lenses, teeth sharp like fangs when he grins, and for a moment, for Harry, it’s a little like his heart is already there, caught between the canines and ready to be devoured.

*

The road to the war bunkers is undefined, Harry only having a turn off from the main road and a dirt track that meanders into overgrown bush. Louis looks at him with narrowed eyes, but keeps his mouth mostly shut, only a suspicious, “If you Peter Falconio me, I’ll haunt you forever — and I can be really annoying,” muttered when the road begins to narrow, and a litter of rocks begin to trip under the carriage.

“You know, somehow, I don’t doubt that,” Harry had said, and Louis had proceeded to look Harry dead in the eye while kicking his feet under the glove box until Harry had apologised.

It’s only now that Harry sees that the clouds from this morning have finally migrated south, breaking apart the blue sky.

“Shit,” Harry says, peering up through the windscreen and through the trees, even as a rumble of thunder rolls overheard. “I thought it was meant to be the dry.”

“Maybe we should head back,” Louis says, looking out the window. “When it rains here it can be really hard to see out on the road. Windscreen wipers are kind of useless.”

“Yeah, all right,” Harry says with a small frown, and with a final glance at the surrounding bushland, he scoots the car around and back to the main road.

They drive in silence, only the sound of the radio fading in and out filling the car, a tinny rendition of some Ben Lee song that Harry can’t place. Louis fiddles in his seat, struggling to keep his eyes from drooping at the monotony of the scenery, only more rusted earth and more faded gums lining the road, and even the birds disappearing at the prospect of rain.

“You can nap if you want,” Harry says, when Louis’ head jerks up suddenly from where it’s fallen, but Louis shakes his head.

“Nah, I’ll only get grumpy when you wake me after,” he says, although it’s followed by a yawn, jaw cracking and eyes tearing. He turns to Harry, saying, “You should entertain me, Styles. Tell me a story.”

Harry glances over to him, his sleepy eyes and small smile, and how he looks a little rumpled in his spot, soft in all the right places.

He swallows hard, turning back to the road and saying, “Thought you hated that. Said that you couldn’t really get to know people that way.”

“Well, maybe I know you well enough now, and I’d just like to hear a story,” Louis counters, poking his hand where it’s laid on the gearstick.

“Maybe you should tell me what you think you know and we’ll go from there,” Harry says, raising an eyebrow, and this time when Louis pokes him, he grabs his hand, holds it there on the curve of the stick.

“You’re weird,” Louis complains, turning back to the window, but he doesn’t pull away.

“Wow, you’re right, you really do know me,” Harry says, grinning.

Voice pitching into a whine, Louis says, “ _Shut up_. Stop being facetious. Just tell me something. Tell me— tell me— I don’t know. Tell me something stupid, like about your first kiss. Or, tell me about why you take so many stupid photos. Or, just— tell me about your big gay revelation or whatever.”

Harry laughs. “Well, if we’re going to talk about that, we’re going to talk about sex.”

“Yes!” Louis says immediately, whipping around. “Tell me about young Harold’s first time having big gay sex.”

Harry squeezes Louis’ hand, remembering once again that Louis has teased him before, and that this conversation might or might not be a precursor no matter how his dick may feel.

“You want to know about my first time with a guy?” Harry says again, making sure. “Do I get a story back?”

“Hazza, you might get even more than a story,” Louis says, waggling his eyebrows, and well, yeah, Harry could be down with that.

They pass a sign telling them they’re in Howard Springs, and the sky is much darker than before, like it’s headed towards evening instead of just mid afternoon. The dry must be ending — the change must be coming through.

Harry makes the turn off to the city and Louis looks at him expectantly, like he already knows Harry would give him anything he could ever want.

“I was about 18,” he finally says, settling back into the car seat. “I’d just moved to Manchester for university, and like, I kind of went all in when I arrived. Like, it wasn’t that I was hiding or anything back home, but I grew up in a small town, so there wasn’t much room for self-exploration, you know?”

“Yeah, I get you,” Louis says, and when Harry looks over, he doesn’t look so tired anymore.

“So, I joined a few clubs,” Harry continues a little chagrined, “ _went_ to a few clubs. You know, the normal stuff. I know that, like, a lot of guys kind of make it about the sex, almost aggressively, you know? Like they’re trying to prove something. And, like, that doesn’t bother me, people can do whatever they want. But, I didn’t really get past a few handies and blow jobs until I got my first boyfriend in second year. And that — that was a revelation.”

“Yeah?” Louis prompts, shifting in his seat to face him properly. And he’s a good listener — Harry wouldn’t have picked him for it, but he is.

“Yeah, like. I mean, I knew I was gay. I knew I liked sex with boys. I mean, I _really_ liked it,” he says with a small huff of laughter. “But I think that was the first time I realised I really wanted a relationship with a boy. Something long-term, or even forever. You know what I mean?”

“I know,” Louis says with a small smile. “I was a bit of the same, I think. Always been better in a relationship, me. My first girlfriend and I dated for four years, if you can believe it.”

He shakes his head a little, gives a helpless shrug, and Harry can understand that — that little grip a person has on you even after they’ve long gone.

“I can believe that,” Harry says, and Louis raises an eyebrow. “You’re pretty easy to fall into, Tomlinson.”

Louis laughs at that, ducks his head to hide the pink high on his cheeks. “Feels like you’ve known me for years, is that right?” he says, and Harry replies, “Eh. Months perhaps? Weeks. One good solid week, minimum,” and Louis laughs again, and Harry can barely comprehend that it’s for him.

“Go on,” Louis says, looking up through his fringe, eyes almost shining, like the sun’s found a hiding place while the storm sweeps in. And Harry doesn’t want to talk about sex anymore. Isn’t sure he’ll make it back if he does.

Regardless, he says, “It was pretty awkward. It was his first time, too, and we sort of stumbled through it, and I think the sexiest part about it all was the fact we both managed to come in the end.”

Louis laughs again, his chin tucked against his chest, and _God_. God, Harry knows it wouldn’t be the same with him. Wouldn’t even be in the same league.

When he focuses back on the road, he notices that the bush has thinned into more open grassy fields, almost a strange contrast to the dry, rusted plains.

“But it was good, yeah?” Louis asks, and his voice has lowered, raspier than the radio that’s not yet settled on a signal. “You thought, now I’m really, _really_ gay.”

“Something like that,” Harry says, letting out a laugh. “But isn’t it your turn now?”

Instead of an insightful story, Louis says, “Hey, stop the car!”

Without hesitance, Harry slows and pulls over to the side of the bitumen. There’s a house just a little ways down the road, one of those old brick ones with a corrugated iron roof. Behind the house, Harry can see the yard stretch out, flat and grassy, and filled with old cars.   
“Let’s take a look, yeah?” Louis says, and before Harry can respond, he’s already hopped out of the car and picking his way through the long grass.

“Louis!” Harry calls out, because if any place looks like it might house a serial killer, this might be it.

“Come on!” he calls back, and Harry can only jog after him, a little less sure-footed and grass prickling at his legs.

As they approach, Harry sees that there’s a man standing on the veranda, in shorts and a blue vest, beer belly protruding at the front.

“Can I help you boys?” he says, brown eyes squinting between a mass of white hair and an impressively long beard that Harry can only dream of someday achieving.

“Yeah,” Louis says. “I’m Louis, and this is Harry. We’re friends of Matty’s, and he mentioned this place the other day, and well, we thought we’d come round and look at the cars.”

“You into cars?” he says, sounding skeptical, and Harry tries to affect a face that might convey the same passion as a car enthusiast.

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry says. “Love ‘em. Mostly, like, classic type cars? But all cars, really.”

“Classic? What, like a Ford Falcon?” the guy asks, now more bemused than skeptical. “You won’t find any cars like that here, boy.”

Harry thinks Louis might be sniggering a little behind his hand, but he can’t be too sure.

The man continues, saying, “I don’t know what Matty told you, but if you want to look, go ahead,” and he walks off, leaving Harry to call out a thank you to his back.

“Who’s Matty?” Harry hisses, when they make their way towards the yard. The sky has finally begun to split, and he can feel sporadic drops of rain hitting his skin, and he’s not really sure what they’re doing.

“Look,” Louis says, “if I’ve learnt anything since coming here, it’s that there’s always some bloke called Matty.” He shrugs. “That’s just a fact.”

The grass gets even longer as they walk, the owner obviously not fussed by the cars being overgrown by weeds and creepers. Most of the cars could probably no longer be called cars in the first place — just rusted chassis, seats torn out and tyres split and worn down to the hubcaps.

Louis climbs up onto the roof of an old tan-coloured jeep, its paint blistered from the heat and its interior filled with more plant life than machinery.

“See,” Louis says, spreading his arms wide and looking smug, so pleased, even as the drops of rain begin to pick up their rhythm. “You don’t need war bunkers, Haz. _This_ is nature reclaimed!”

“That’s great,” Harry says, looking around at the field of broken cars, sinking into the landscape and misting with rain. “But I don’t have my camera, Lou.”

Louis drops his hands and at that moment a streak of lightning illuminates the darkening sky at the treeline in the distance, followed a few seconds later by a crack of thunder that seems to shake the ground.

“Louis, get down!” Harry warns, and Louis looks about to protest, but another roll of thunder, thick and cascading over the field, has him scrambling off the roof, feet thumping on the metal, just as the rain really starts to fall.

Harry wrenches at the jeep’s door, and they jump inside, trying to avoid the rust by crouching on the ground, the grass up to their ears.

“So, I didn’t really think this through,” Louis says, and Harry can barely hear it over the bullets of rain pounding the blistered roof, and the cane toads that have started to croak around them.

“You mean getting us caught in a thunderstorm in the middle of a yard full of large metal objects wasn’t part of the plan?” Harry shouts.

“Being inside a car is better than being outside! I’m sure I saw that on telly once!” Louis shouts back, but he still grips at Harry’s shoulder, pulling him closer. 

There are poisonous toads encroaching and insects crawling over their feet, and what sounds like the storm to end all storms churning above them. It’s so far from being the right time, but that doesn’t stop the surge of want Harry feels at Louis’ touch. 

He wants to draw Louis into his lap, and wants their already damp bodies huddled together until he can feel each of Louis’ breaths as if they were his own. Wants to pin him to the ground with grass under their clothes, and wants to show him all the things he’s learnt since he was a clumsy teen, too unsure and too naïve. Wants to have him — and not just for this moment. And the rain battles on like gunfire, pounding the earth to mud.

And then; “I was 21!” Louis shouts. He’s close enough now that he shouldn’t have to, eyes clear and lashes wet and right in front of Harry’s. “After my girlfriend and I broke up, I just wanted to go out and get it over with! Maybe I was trying to prove something, like you said!”

“I didn’t—” Harry starts, but Louis shakes his head.

“No, like, I’m not saying I was out there, fucking myself up or making mistakes! I liked it! Like, a lot more than I thought I would!” he says, and he looks a little embarrassed, something self-deprecating in his smile, even though Harry knows there’s no shame in that — knows exactly how different it is for everyone.

“I was really lucky, actually,” Louis continues. “He was fit and older and experienced, and I think that first night he fucked me three ways to Sunday, and it was like I saw God or something. And don’t get me wrong, I love sex with women, but that night, it was just…”

He trails off, and Harry finds himself filling in the sentence, already knowing.

“A revelation,” he says aloud, and Louis grins.

“Yeah. A fucking revelation.”

Harry kisses him then, hands cradling his face and Louis’ fingers curling into the wet cotton of his shirt. He can’t help feeling that there’s something there; something like that first time. Like the whole world has just gone and shed another layer, one more revelation made verisimilitude.

Their legs cramp up after a while and they’re forced to race back, with laughter bursting forth like a river as they slide and squelch their way through the wet grass. From the safety of the veranda, the old man watches them, raindrops in his beard and shaking his head in disbelief. And the sky, the storm, keeps shuddering above them.

When they make it to the car, they’re soaked through — completely sodden water-logged messes. The car’s going to be damp and musty afterwards. They’re going to be sitting in wet clothes and there’s a good chance they’ll catch a cold, and the warm evening will run into chills. But then Harry looks at Louis in the passenger seat — at the water collecting in the crinkles by his eyes, and slicking back the strands of his hair, and falling into an open smile — and it feels as if the rain is just skidding off him; it’s just sliding off his skin like red light on a new morning.

*

The storm has passed by the time they make it back up north, but the lowery clouds still crown the horizon, filtering the sun through a grey haze. It’s nearly four once they reach the hotel, and they take turns washing themselves clean of the dirt and grass smeared up their ankles and around their shins, Harry only just resisting following Louis in and pressing him up against the tiles; burning through some of the tension that’s been building inside of him for what seems like eons.

When Harry gets out, Louis tells him that Niall’s asked them to pick up some garlic bread and some kind of salad for the barbecue and they head over the Woolies. Harry piles the basket full of lettuce and tomato and carrots, while Louis fills his with three different types of garlic bread and three bags of crisps, and they somehow manage to make it out with only a few pointed looks at each other’s selections.

Louis sings along to the radio all the way to his place, feet tapping on the car mat, and knuckles rapping out a beat on the window. And as soon as they pull up beside his house and step out of the car, Harry pushes his back against the side door; holds him tight at the hips and kisses him, slow and deep, until there’s heat flaring through his veins; until Niall comes out of the house and yells at them to stop their obscenity in view of the neighbours. 

Pulling back, Louis’ lips are red and slick with spit and his eyes are dark, and the tug of fingers at the curls at the nape of Harry’s neck feels like a promise for later.

The house smells like potato and butter when the walk in, and there are already bowls of crisps on the bench and a few open bottles of beer. Music is playing all through the house, and Niall is at the counter mixing cream through a potato salad, but there isn’t any sign of the others.

“Hey, Harry,” Niall says, as soon as they come in, before turning to Louis and going, “Did you get the garlic bread?”

Louis dumps the shopping bags on the bench without ceremony, mindless of the bottles in their path.

“Where’s everyone else?” Louis asks, digging a finger into the potato salad, and then hopping away when Niall makes an affronted noise, swatting at his hand.

Louis moves out of reach and into Harry’s side, and Harry wraps a protective arm around his shoulder. The raised eyebrow Niall casts at both of them doesn’t go unnoticed.

Instead of commenting though, he says, “Liam’s setting up the chairs and stuff with his girl and I think Ed’s fiddling with the music. Zayn’s trying to get the projector to work. Asked me to tell you to help him when you arrived.”

“Well, that’s my job then,” Louis says cheerily, and presses up on his toes to kiss Harry on the lips, before asking, “You all right if I leave you here?”

Harry nods, kissing him again briefly, and when he lets him go, Louis points a finger at Niall, saying, “Be nice,” and heads out.

When Harry looks back at Niall, he’s got the other eyebrow raised, too, quite impressively.

He opens his mouth, but any question he might have been about to ask is left to die on his tongue, because at that moment a familiar voice behind them exclaims, “ _Harry?_ ”

Spinning around, Harry’s greeted with the sight of Leigh-Anne, mouth hanging open and eyes wide, with the faux-hawk’s arm around her waist.

“Hi,” the boy says, extending a hand all politely while Leigh-Anne continues to gape. “I’m Liam. You must be Harry.”

Harry shakes it, feels how strong and firm his grip is. “So you’re the guy that nicked Leigh-Anne for the weekend,” he says, and Liam smiles contritely, blushing a little.

“Don’t be mean,” Leigh-Anne says, finally unfreezing and reaching out to push Harry’s shoulder. “And nobody ‘nicks’ me. I’m my own person and I make my own bloody decisions.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry says, rubbing his shoulder, but he’s grinning because this, _this_ , is what game fate has decided to play — this clichéd, romcom, Jennifer Aniston-worthy move.

“Wait,” Liam says suddenly, like his brain’s finally caught up with the context. “So the guy that Louis has been hooking up with is your friend?”

The lack of eye-rolling on Leigh-Anne’s part is the best gauge for Harry to tell how much she must actually genuinely like this guy.

“Apparently so,” she says, and the grin she returns to Harry is a little more wicked.

“Great,” Niall says from where he’s been observing the little reunion. “So we all know each other. Now who’s going to help with the rest of the food?”

Liam immediately starts backing away, making some excuse about checking the gas on the barbecue, but Niall seems to have been expecting that because he hands both Harry and Leigh-Anne some knives and peelers.

“You right for the salad?” he says.

“Please,” Leigh-Anne says, accepting it and setting herself down at the bench. “Harry practically lives off salad. He’s like a hamster, or something equally rodent-like.”

“For your information,” Harry says, sitting beside her, “I plan on living a long and healthy life, just like a hamster.”

“Don’t hamsters only live, like, five years?” Niall says, furrowing his eyebrows.

“Which is like one hundred in human years,” Harry asserts, and yep, Leigh-Anne’s eye roll is back.

“Right. Well, if you two are okay here, I’m going to make sure Liam’s actually setting the barbecue up instead of fucking around with Zayn and Lou,” Niall says, gesturing to the door.

“Yeah, sure, leave the guests to do all the prep,” Leigh-Anne says, but she’s already peeling a carrot. “I hope you know we’re going to drink all your beer.”

“The fridge is at your disposal,” Niall calls out, before leaving them alone and heading out back.

Harry retrieves a chopping board and washes the lettuce and tomatoes, and tries to ignore Leigh-Anne’s eyes tracking him around the kitchen. She gets up eventually, going to the fridge and getting out two bottles, which she cracks open on the bench, handing one to Harry.

“Cheers,” he says, pausing his cutting. “But you don’t have to butter me up first before asking me anything.”

Leigh-Anne shrugs, leaning back against the bench. “Just thought a little alcohol might loosen your inhibitions a bit,” she says.

Harry snorts. “Okay, but when have I ever needed alcohol for that?” And Leigh-Anne laughs, her curls shaking.

“Yeah, all right, Mr Shameless,” she says. “Tell me all about the small cute one, then.”

It’s Harry’s turn to shrug now, a small thing as he slices up the tomato. For all the feelings burning their meteorite trail though his body, there’s still a haziness, an intangibility, to this thing that’s been growing between he and Louis.

“It’s been good,” is what he settles on. “It’s been really good. He’s...he’s kind of incredible.”

Leigh-Anne looks at him over the top of her beer bottle. “Christ. Here I was thinking all you’d been doing was fucking like rabbits, but you’ve actually done and fallen for him, you bellend.”

“Shut up,” Harry says, but there’s a smile that’s threatening to distort his face, because that’s what’s happened, isn’t it? “Don’t tell me that’s not all you’ve been doing,” he throws back, and Leigh-Anne’s look turns pointed and a little incredulous.

“It bloody well has been. Plan on meeting up once he’s back home, too, and doing more of the same, thank you very much.”

Harry’s eyes shoot up at that. “What, really? That good?”

She leans over and flicks him in the forehead. “ _Yes_ ,” she hisses. “But also because he’s kind of sweet, okay? I told you before, didn’t I? He’s actually really nice. Knows how to treat a lady,” she says, and it’s more than a little smug.

“I know what that’s code for,” Harry says with a grin, scraping the veg into the bowl. “ _Multiple orgasms_.”

“Actual, proper bellend,” Leigh-Anne says, flicking him again, this time in the chest. She tilts her head though, considering. “ _But_ , you’re not _wrong_ per se.”

Harry lets out a loud laugh just as Liam comes in again, sidling up being Leigh-Anne and wrapping an arm around her shoulder.

“What’s going on here then?” he says, peering at the food. “Did Niall put you up to this?”

“We’re trying to put an end to your all meat diet,” Leigh-Anne says, linking her fingers with his where they rest over her heart, and it already looks so natural, so casual, that it makes Harry grin. When he catches Leigh-Anne’s eye, she’s smiling, too.

“Well, you better get that out there, then,” Liam says. “Think the lads are about to fire up the barbecue. Don’t want you to miss out.”

He kisses her, a quick peck on the cheek, and shoots a grin over to Harry, before ducking out again through the sliding door.

“Don’t say a word,” Leigh-Anne says, putting her beer down and beginning to julienne the carrots.

“Excuse you, I’m not saying anything,” Harry says, but Leigh-Anne’s still smiling, shaking her head in something that can’t even be counted as exasperation.

“Yeah, yeah,” she says.

They finish cutting, tossing the salad in the vinaigrette dressing while the garlic bread crisps up in the oven, and head outdoors, where the sky is beginning to darken and Crowded House’s _Don’t Dream It’s Over_ plays out over the lawn.

Louis and Zayn are sprawled out on folding chairs, beers in hand and job obviously done, while Niall and Liam are standing over the barbecue and apparently arguing over the necessity to season steak. There’s another guy, who introduces himself as Ed and helps them to bring out the rest of the food and the cutlery, and it feels like any other gathering, any other night surrounded by beer and food and friends back home in London in someone’s backyard or cramped dining room. Except they’re halfway around the world, aren’t they? And there’s a gorgeous boy who’s stretching his neck over the back of his fold-up chair, fringe flopping and mischievous grin on his face, and he’s beckoning Harry to come near.

Harry lopes over; stands at his back so that Louis is looking up at him, and lets him pull him down by the hem of his t-shirt — kiss him sharp and quick and still so demanding.

“You good?” Louis says when he releases him but Harry’s still got a thumb tracing down his temple.

Harry nods, leaning down to kiss him once more, because it’s not enough; never feels like enough. Pink lips catch against his and he says, “Yeah. I’m good.”

*

It turns out that Ed’s been in Australia for a while, and they talk camping adventures and Australian music over rissoles and steak and potato salad, with wet grass under their feet and a darkening sky overhead. Liam and Niall haven’t resolved their disagreement, and when Harry says he only ever seasons his steak the barest minimum, Niall grins at him like he’s found a friend for life.

The music plays over their conversation, Crowded House turning into INXS turning into Cold Chisel, and there are fairy lights strung up along the veranda and citronella lamps burning around the edges of the yard. Next to him, Leigh-Anne and Zayn have just realised that they both knew the same girl in high school who’s now become an equestrian Olympic medalist, even though they lived hours away from each other.

And then there’s Louis. Louis, who, over the flow of beer and conversation, is loud and sarcastic and unrestrained. Louis, who drags Harry to the two-seater folding chair once he finishes eating, curls up at his side, and is loud right into his ear.

Eventually, Zayn is able to pull down the projector screen. They stow the leftovers back in the kitchen and turn off the lights and put on the reel, _The Castle_ rolling through speckled film and crackling, popping speakers. 

On their two-seater, Louis settles back against Harry’s chest. It should be too warm for this, their thin vests already damp with sweat, but for Harry, the heat is heady, honey-like. He can’t move away is the thing; can’t look away. The others focus on the movie, their laughter syncing and spreading into the lingering humidity, but there are blues and greens playing across Louis’ features, lashes long enough to cast shadows, and he’s too beautiful to look away from. So, so incredibly beautiful.

Louis says something to Harry that he doesn’t catch, although Louis’s not bothering to whisper under the sound of the speakers. He watches Louis’ mouth curl around the words, and wonders if maybe one day in the future he’ll be able to lip read, and then, if he’ll be able to kiss him soon.

When Louis wriggles around at his side, Harry takes that as enough of an excuse to pull him closer until he’s almost in Harry’s lap, and Harry’s arms are wrapped around his middle, holding him still against his body.

The skin of Louis’ neck where Harry places his lips still has traces of lavender soap under salt and musk, and Harry noses down to a soft spot at the junction of his throat, pressing his mouth along the lines and hollows in what could just be counted as a kiss, and feeling his pulse quicken under the touch. He slips a hand under Louis’ vest, splays it over the pouched skin of his stomach, and bites a little harder where his lips lay, tongue laving over the mark, wet and wanting.

Louis’ hand reaches up to tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck, even as he tilts back and exposes the smooth skin of his throat, and it’s dizzying, bordering on electrifying, the way the energy thrums through Harry’s body; the way their hands meet each other’s skin like they’re closing a circuit. Harry thinks it might have been years of waiting just for the exhale of breath Louis releases when he sucks a bruise under his jaw; when he presses down lower on Louis’ stomach, fingers grazing his waistband, Louis arching abandoned into his touch.

In the background, the movie is now no more than white noise; the only sounds that matter being Louis’ uneven breaths as he tries to remain quiet, and the rustle of the canvas chair as Harry attempts to pull him yet closer, only ever aching for more.

Just as Harry tucks his middle finger down the waistband of Louis’ shorts, a muttered “ _Jesus_ ,” escapes Louis’ lips, mouthed into the night air. And then, he’s worming out of Harry’s grasp and standing up in front of him, his compact body made even smaller by the yellow light of the projector that halos him.

He holds out a hand to Harry, and there’s no thinking twice — Harry is reaching out and taking and letting Louis weave them between the strewn bottles and cans towards the house, mindless of the eyes that glance up at the sound of crunching grass and the click of the sliding door closing behind them.

The wooden stairs are barely solid beneath his feet as they ascend, but Louis’ arm stretches, still that cast line between them — that reeling weight — guiding him up and through the dark, with echoes of the film fading beyond. Louis looks behind him, gaze thrown over his shoulder, and in the blackness Harry can see that smirk, those crinkles by his eyes, and there’s a feeling within him, that even while falling through the sky, he’s tethered, anchored, to this moment in time.

As soon as the door closes behind them, he’s pushing Louis up against it, hands fitted at Louis’ waist, and bare toes stepping on each other over the wooden floorboards. The smirk on Louis’ face collapses into a laugh, rough and thin, and there’s anticipation there, between them — something as tangible as the gathering humidity and solid darkness. Louis is looking up at him, and his eyes are as bright as the moon and the projector light flickering through the window, and it’s like Harry has caught starlight in his hands, something like a wish, a hope, shot straight through the night and burning into the fate lines of his palms.

Louis arches up on his toes to meet Harry’s mouth, his hands gripping at his shoulders, firm and sure and something incandescent. And Harry presses their lips together, flinging out his every aching hope, and every daring wish.

Licking into Louis’ parted mouth, tongue running along his teeth, his lips catch at Louis’ and then again, mouths melting under wet heat, until Louis’ panting for breath beneath him and his ribs are quaking under the tight hold of Harry’s fingers.

His whole being feels too hot, too tight under his skin and clothes, and with reluctance he pulls away to tug clumsily at their vests, pulling them gracelessly over their arms and heads. The material snags at their chins and ears, dragging laughter when they’re pulled to release, and then they’re discarded on the bedroom floor and both their chests are bare beneath strips of moonlight.

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” Harry says, adoring, ragged. His hands skitter up and down the heated skin of Louis’ torso, his small dip of a waist and smattering of tattoos, and the lovely bones of his hips where they jut from the waistband of his shorts.

Louis lets out a stuttered laugh, a fragmented, “Same, same,” and then his fingers are carding through Harry’s hair, manipulating him until their mouths fit together again with wonderful precision.

Harry’s hands reach to cradle his jaw, thumb running along the stubble and fixing at the hinge. Knees clack and then slip into place, and Harry’s leg hitches up between them, his thigh grinding into Louis’ crotch, even as he presses yet closer, the beading sweat on their skin sliding together. He rolls his hips up into Louis’, seeking friction in the burn, and Louis groans, pushing down, hard under the material of his shorts.

When Louis grinds down again, back arching into him in a fluid movement, it pushes a grunt from Harry’s chest, making his toes curl into the floorboards. His cock strains for release from within the confines of his pants.

Lips trailing to Louis’ neck, nipping at the flesh, Harry says hotly, “Need you naked. More naked,” and Louis laughs breathlessly beneath him, fingers gripping where they’re tangled in his hair.

“Yeah,” he says, voice knotted around his tongue, and he blinks slowly up at him, all smudged-ash and smoky arousal. His mouth looks shiny, rose-bitten in the moonlight and blue-green shine, and Harry — and Harry — “Yeah,” Louis says again. “Yeah, okay. Come on.”

With so much more dexterity than his own, Louis’ fingers trace down the tight muscles of Harry’s back to tug at his waistband. The elastic pulls over the curve, and Louis drags them down over Harry’s arse, and then he’s pushing them apart, unbuttoning and wriggling out of his own shorts, and leaving Harry to push his clumsily to a rumpled mess at his feet.

There are giggles lodged in their throats when they tumble towards the bed, feet stumbling over clutter that Harry can’t quite make out, and then they’re hitting the mattress with a threatening creak and it bursts out of them, giddy and reckless. Stretched out over the bed, Louis’ fingers make mirrors of the bones of his ribs, and he’s kissing him through his smile, leaning over him so bright and wicked in the gentle darkness, and Harry is lost in a tangle of bedclothes and the feel of Louis, skin on sensitised skin.

Louis’ mouth is hot and demanding, and he kisses him until there’s an ache in Harry’s jaw and Harry’s cock is throbbing against his hip. Tongues slide together, and lips feel bruised and swollen, and still it’s not enough, not enough, and Louis is rutting against his stomach with needy little sounds that dig right into Harry’s gut.

“Hey,” Harry says between kisses, “babe. Lou. Come on, you’re killing me,” and then Louis is biting at his lip and pushing himself up, nudging Harry towards against the headboard.

Once Harry’s back is aligned with the wood, Louis crawls over him, and though his breaths are shallow and uneven, that smirk is back at the corner of his mouth, lovely and teasing. He slides onto Harry’s lap, his warm thighs heavy and solid against Harry’s own, and arms locking around his neck, and Harry kisses him, once, twice, doesn’t think he’ll ever, ever want to stop.

His hands find Louis’ soft hips, his arse, kneading with his palms and pulling him closer until their cocks are rubbing together between them with blissful friction. There’s heat coursing through him and his dick is streaking precome over both their stomachs, and every kiss feels laced with something bordering on desperation. 

With his lip caught between Louis’ teeth, one of his hands spreads low on Louis’ back, the base of his wrist settling into the dip above his bum and fingers spreading across the soft, damp skin. It doesn’t take much for his long middle finger to slip down the cleft to rub at Louis’ dry rim, causing Louis to release an unexpected noise into his mouth, hips jerking against Harry’s stomach.

Pulling back to rest their foreheads together, Harry asks through panted breaths, “Do you want it? Fuck— just. What do you want, Lou?”

Louis blinks carefully, almost cross-eyed when he looks at him, and he says, smiling though his voice is little more than a rasp, “You’re going to fuck me, aren’t you, babe?”

A noise close to a growl escapes Harry’s lips, and Louis laughs, and it’s like— it’s like, he’s still that god; still doing as he pleases and watching with satisfaction at the trail of havoc he wreaks behind him. But this time Harry has him under his hands and he knows — he _knows_ — that there’s never been a rule about gods not falling apart.

Harry goes to kiss him again, fingers digging in, but Louis pushes him away, saying, “No, shit. Wait.”

Without warning, he tips over the side of the bed, rummaging around on the floor and leaving Harry to hold his thighs so he doesn’t topple to the ground. Even in the dim light, Harry can see the stark tan lines on his skin, proof of sweltering hot days and a lack of sunscreen, making Louis’ bum glow an innocent lily-white. It pulls a startled laugh from Harry’s lips, and he traces a thumb over the lines before pinching at the delightful crease of his arse.

Louis makes a disgruntled sound before whipping himself back up. His eyebrow is raised as he pushes a tube of lube and a condom into Harry’s hand, saying tartly, “You know, I was actually going to do it myself, put on a little show. But for that, _you_ can do it.”

Scoffing, Harry takes both and places the condom next to them on the bed. “Yeah, sure, I completely believe that. You definitely weren’t going to just sit there and make me do all the work. That doesn’t sound like you at all.”

“Well, now I guess you’ll never know, will you?” Louis says, but there’s a quirk at his lips, and he resettles easily back in Harry’s lap, winding his fingers in Harry’s curls, only a fraction too tight.

It hardly matters, though. Harry’s always loved this part — the part where he makes someone fall apart on his fingers and his fingers alone; loves getting them to the point where their hips are stuttering and their mouths are parted in an endless stream of moans. Somehow, he has no doubt that Louis is going to fall apart so very, very prettily — that Harry’s going to get him there, aching and incoherent with want.

So, he doesn’t waste any time slicking up his fingers and sliding them down once more, pressing the middle one past that tight ring of muscle. He kisses him, dirty and slow, as his finger sinks into the brilliant heat of him. Just the bare feel of him around his finger, all that tight, clenching heat, has Harry groaning into Louis’ mouth, biting at his lip.

He edges in deeper, and once the second knuckle sits neatly at the rim, Louis lets out a puff of air against his mouth, his body giving a little shudder against him.

Harry smiles into their kiss, even as Louis says a mumbled, “Shut up,” against his lips, and he uses his other hand to caress over the round of Louis’ arse, soothing and petting.

“Yeah?” Harry says, moving the finger in and out in increments, nudging a second finger at the entrance. “Okay?”

Louis huffs out a small laugh, squirming in his lap. “I thought we’d already established that I’ve been a bit of a slut,” he says dryly. But the kiss he places on Harry’s mouth feels gentle and fine, and he adds, “Yeah, Haz. Go on, babe.”

With that encouragement, Harry slips the second finger inside, working it alongside the first. Despite Louis’ words, it still feels like it could be too much, the bones of his fingers pinching together almost painfully. And then Louis’ muscles are clamping briefly around him before he rolls his hips down with a sigh, drawing him in.

A small _uh_ comes out with the exhaled sigh, and it could have come from either of them, from both of them, from the night expelling the warm, heavy air. Harry’s dick is heavy on his stomach, precome dripping as it slides against Louis’, and when they kiss it’s like just another layer of building clouds, just another precursor to the onset of rain.

Gripping more firmly at Louis’ arse, Harry spreads his cheeks and rocks him forward, pressing them together.

“ _Shit_ ,” Louis says, a surprised laugh edging into a groan when Harry repeats the movement, grinding him closer and then back on his fingers. His eyes dip closed, head tipping forward onto Harry’s, and, “ _Fuck_. Such a fucking _show off_.”

His words turn a bit strangled when the tips of Harry’s fingers brush against the fleshy outline of his prostate, and Harry grins, saying, “Not showing off. ‘m just that good, aren’t I?”

He thinks Louis might roll his eyes, but the action’s negated by the flush creeping along his chest under moonlight, and the way his fingers flex at the nape of Harry’s neck.

He’s so lovely like this, his body eagerly taking whatever Harry gives him, and each small movement of his hips betraying whatever is left of a crumbling façade of indifference. The hand that Harry has on Louis’ arse is insistent and claiming, and even as mouths brush through shallow breaths, Harry’s chest fills, expanding, warring with the confines of his yearning body.

“Beautiful,” Harry says, lips titling up in a smile and most probably stars in his eyes. He nudges their noses together and Louis laughs, a small, shaking thing. 

Says, “Come on, Haz. Come on” — demanding, even when his voice is cracking and near begging.

When he slides in a third finger, Louis mouths a silent curse across Harry’s lips, before his own turn up in another threadbare laugh, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks.

As Harry twists his wrist, stretching him wider, Louis moves a hand between them, grabbing their lengths in a grip that almost encompasses them both. It feels like almost too much, so exponentially more overwhelming than the bare glide of their cocks along one another, that Harry groans with it, the fingers splayed on Louis’ arse digging into flesh.

“So loud,” Louis murmurs between them through a heavy breath, and Harry murmurs a low _fuck_ at the way Louis tightens his grip and pulls them together, making him throb with need. Eyes gleaming, Louis shakes his head against Harry’s, even as his hips continue to move restlessly, and says, “S’like you want them to hear or something. Like yesterday. Bet you’d come in a second if they were watching.” And the blurt of precome that spills over Harry’s dick is enough of an answer.

Louis moves to nip at the side of Harry’s jaw, kissing at the damp skin, and Harry wonders if he can feel his pulse racing there.

“Just now, if I hadn’t stopped you, you would’ve got me off there, yeah?” Louis says into the shell of his ear, and Harry can feel his hot breath on his skin and the faint scratch of stubble. “You’re just that shameless.”

“Would’ve,” Harry agrees, because there’s no question really, how much further he would go — how much he would do even now for this impossible, ridiculous boy. “Would’ve fucked you then if you’d let me,” he says, and the shiver that runs down Louis’ spine speaks of silent, maddening possibilities.

Harry pushes his fingers up one last time, angling them against Louis’ prostate, and Louis jerks forward in his lap, fist tightening around them and a whimper loosed from his lips.

“Ready?” he asks, and Louis nods, reaching for the condom almost hidden in the wrinkled bedclothes.

With practised ease, he rips it with his teeth and smooths it down Harry’s length, followed by a smear of lube. He gives it one last friendly squeeze before he suddenly and unexpectedly reaches behind him and pries Harry’s hands from his bum.

As Harry makes a noise of protest, Louis presses a tacky finger to his lips, eyes dark and eyebrow raised. And Harry can only watch as Louis rises from his lap and shuffles around, turning his head to throw a look over his shoulder, the twist of his lovely spine as it winds down his back dipping away from lingering, flickering light.

His mess of ruffled hair falls over his eyes, and like this, turned away from the window, Harry can barely see his expression. But he doesn’t have to by now. He already knows — knows from the doing, not the asking — that when Louis says, “Like this,” all rough and teasing, that there’s a smile there, wearing an indent into his cheek and creases into the soft skin of his eyes.

“Yeah?” Harry says, and he’s already bracing his hands again at Louis’ sides, thumbs pressing into the sweet dimples there, the hot supple skin under his palms.

“Yeah,” Louis says. “Like this.”

Sharp inflections from the film downstairs sift through the fly-screened window, and now the air is beginning to be touched by petrichor, but all Harry can do is watch, lip caught between his teeth and lungs battling for even breath, as Louis sinks slowly down on his cock.

The blunt, sensitive head nudges at Louis’ stretched rim, and Louis’ small hand slips along the condom as he steadily presses down. Even in the dark, Harry can see the imprints in Louis’ skin where his fingers pulled him apart, coordinates on the map of his body charting where he’s been. As his cock is enveloped in wondrous, tight heat, his fingers trace the faded marks, and it burns in him, turning those struggling breaths molten.

The tip of his cock slips inside with a slick sound, and Louis lets out a short, pained laugh, and from behind Harry can see the lines of Louis’ ribs expanding under his chest with each heavy exhale, and the sweat trickling from the nape of his neck, shining under glanced moonlight. And that tight pressure — that intense, tight hold — already feels like the beginning of an unravelling, making his cock pulse urgently with the need for release.

“Fuck,” Louis says, and there’s still a laugh there, a little wild, a little unsteady, like the twitching muscles in Harry’s legs and the clenching of his stomach. “I knew you were big, but—”

_But_. He doesn’t finish his sentence, doesn’t give Harry a chance to do much more than grunt and squeeze Louis’ hips, before Louis is working himself down, muscles moving along his back and thighs tensing where they frame Harry’s, strong and thick and lovely.

By the time Louis’ arse sits cradled against his hips, his breath is coming in these small pants, and there’s a tremor in his legs, and Harry’s positively _aching_ , throbbing terrifically between clamping muscles.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Louis says, ragged and worn, and he’s bracing himself forward on Harry’s thighs, head dipped down between his shoulder blades and starlight along the knobs of his spine.

Harry soothes a shaking hand along the ridges, feels that wild heartbeat thrum under his fingers and his own thump against his ribs, rattling in its cage.

“All right?” he says, voice sounding strained and alien. Louis just laughs tightly, before tipping his head back, and Harry wishes he could see the line of his throat, feel it move under his lips.

“Mhmm,” he murmurs, shifting, squeezing around Harry, and Harry doesn’t even know if it’s because he’s still adjusting or if he’s teasing, but it still pulls from him a guttural groan, eyes closing briefly in pleasure.

And then, Louis is grinding down in a slow, lazy figure eight, his back arching in the sway, and Harry _knows_ that this is a tease — that this is for show.

Harry groans again when he repeats the movement, a staggered, “ _God_ ,” and Louis laughs again, before lifting himself up and then lowering himself in a fluid, breathless motion.

Harry can’t help pressing his hands in, spreading him wide and watching his cock slide into him again and again as Louis fucks back on him, beautiful thighs slapping against his and bum all round, firm muscle in his palms.

“God,” Harry says again, moans it, when Louis lifts himself higher, fucking down at an angle that forces out a sharp gasp of pleasure, fingers digging into Harry’s thighs.

“Louis, _Louis_ ,” Harry says, eyes trailing from where his dick is being swallowed by Louis’ glorious arse to the touch of moonlight, blue-green film light flickering across Louis’ shoulders.

The heat, the humidity that’s been weighting the air around them clings to their skin, cloaking them like that flickering light. Like petrichor rising from the earth, and clouds sinking from the sky; like the lilting ocker meshed through the crackling speakers, and like the change, emerging, electric.

“So gorgeous,” Harry says, and his voice is low and gravelly, frayed with want. “Take me so fucking well, babe.”

Louis lets out a whimper, and his thighs are beginning to tremble with his efforts even as he quickens his movements, fucking onto Harry’s cock more sharply, searching for release.

“Fuck. _Harry_ ,” Louis whines, and it’s like something breaks inside of Harry; something about that pleading sound and the small hunch of Louis’ shoulders that makes his restraints fold like paper.

Steadying a hand back on the curve of Louis’ waist and planting his feet into the mattress, Harry thrusts upwards, and then again when Louis lets out a strangled laugh, crumpling forward, hands holding onto Harry’s knees.

“Like this?” he says, and then, before Louis can reply, he’s nudging them up and forward with an arm wrapped around Louis’ middle, and laying them down the length of the mattress, toes to the headboard.

“ _Haz_ —” Louis says, face centimetres away from being buried in the bedclothes, but Harry is holding onto the condom and sliding out of him, turning him onto his back.

Harry doesn’t know why it feels like forever since he’s seen his face, but now that he can — now that he can see the lovely flush of his cheeks, and his eyes, hooded and hazy and lined with wet-tipped lashes, and the slack line of his lips, kissed raw and swollen—

Still pinching the end of the condom, his other hand pulling Louis’ knee over his hip, Harry slides back into the tight, slick warmth, and watches each emotion — each spontaneous expression — play over Louis’ face. Blunt nails dig into the broad expanse of Harry’s back, and Louis’ brows furrow, eyes dipping closed, bottom lip caught briefly between his teeth, and his chest beneath Harry’s, stilled and strained. And then, when the base of Harry’s cock is finally nestled at the round of his arse, that lovely exhale. That dissipation into softness.

Louis looks up at him, his hair falling around him like a sweaty halo, and the blue-green light cast across his face in otherworldly moonshine, and there’s a quickening, that building in Harry’s chest, like the layering clouds and the onset of rain; thicker, faster, more miraculous than the blood rushing through their veins.

And then, travelling up from the lawn and through the window, Niall’s voice yelling in an incredible Australian accent: “Tell ‘im ‘e’s dreamin’!”

Louis’ head falls back, mouth open in loud, unsuppressed laughter, and Harry buries his face in Louis’ neck, pressing his smile into the pulse rabbiting under Louis’ skin, still smelling traces of lavender, and that feeling that’s been burning its way through the spaces between his ribs suddenly exposes itself, and it’s like—

It’s like every good thing he’s ever had condensed and concentrated into this one tiny, brilliant, significant moment. And it’s like—

A goddamn revelation.

Pushing himself up, Harry swallows the laughter on Louis’ tongue and presses their mirrored smiles together, and when he says, “ _Like this_ ,” suddenly, it’s no longer a question.

Louis grins, the warm palms of his hands curled around the cut of Harry’s shoulder blades, and it’s more than acquiescence, more than enough motivation for Harry to drag the length of his cock out to the tip and push forward with a swift, smooth thrust into brilliant heat.

Louis’ neck stretches back as he groans, eyes still crinkled in that smile, and Harry repeats the movement, revelling in the closeness and the way the walls of muscle constrict around his aching cock.

The hand Harry still has curled around Louis’ knee pushes him higher, angling Louis’ hips up and nearly folding him in half, searching for that spot; fucking in with steady thrusts until Louis’ mouth falls open and his fingers dig into bone.

“ _Haz, Harry, Haz._ ” And _fuck_ , there’s nothing like it — nothing like the feeling of Louis wrapped around his cock and falling apart beneath him, and Louis’ own cock, hard and wet between their stomachs.

The sounds of Louis’ moans and panted breaths permeate the thickened air in the room, echoing along the wooden beams and keeping time with the slap of skin on skin, and, “God, I want you,” Harry says, and his voice is cracking and garbled, and it doesn’t even make sense, because he has him, now, writhing and needy beneath him. “Wanted you since I first saw you. _God, Lou_.”

Louis doesn’t respond, but his legs tighten around Harry’s waist, and his fingers thread themselves into his hair, tugging him closer.

As his climax builds, Harry’s thrusts get harder and sloppier, pushing them down the bed so that Louis’ head lolls at the end of the mattress, the cords of his neck straining and Adam’s apple bobbing with each forceful movement. Harry buries his face there, between the bow of his collarbone and the tanned lines of his neck, mouthing messily at the lovely skin and tasting salt and soap and _Louis_. And Louis keens, fingers yanking as the strands of Harry’s hair and making Harry moan with it.

“Fuck, _Harry_ ,” Louis says, and it’s like the words have cycled through his mouth so much that they’ve worn themselves down to barely a murmured rasp. “Fuck, fuck, I’m going to—”

He comes between them, cock scarcely touched, and fuck, he’s so lovely, so fucking beautiful. Louis’ jaw drops open in a hitched moan, eyes fluttering closed, and it’s like his whole body pulls taut, back arching and muscles clamping down hard on Harry’s cock. Harry fucks him through it, stripes of come smearing between their stomachs, before Louis’ body sags back against the mattress, sated and spent.

Cock burning and throbbing for release, Harry forces himself to slow down, gentling kisses at Louis’ neck with eyes squeezed shut, until Louis pulls at his hair, says, “Come on, babe. You’re right,” and shifts his hips, grinding down.

Although his eyes are drooping and glazed, Louis lifts Harry’s head and leans up to capture his lips, mouth melting sweetly against his. And Harry can’t help surging forward, desperate with it, overwhelming heat singeing every cell of his body.

Feet tangled in an ocean of bedclothes, Harry builds up his rhythm once more, thrusting into Louis’ loose and pliant body. The muscles in his thighs are cramping and their skin is sticky with sweat, and Harry fucks Louis until his long strokes become a dirty, frantic grind.

Louis kisses him, sensitivity making him bite at Harry’s lips, and Harry almost wants to say _sorry, sorry, close, close,_ but then he’s there, coming into the tight heat of him, cock pulsing and legs shaking. Harry lets out a wet gasp into Louis’ mouth, hips jerking reflexively and chasing the last tattered ends of his orgasm, and heart beating bare and raw.

When he finally regains his senses, blinking down at Louis, blinking up at him, he realises that the room has darkened, the film light flickering no more. Their breaths gather in the space between them, still burning too hot for the humidity in the air, and their noses brush every time their ribs sink into their chests, and _God_. God, what he would do to be able to feel like this forever.

With a last, soft kiss, Harry slips out of Louis’ body. He rises from the bed and wades through the sea of clothing scattered on the floor to find a bin to throw the condom, and then into the ensuite for a washer.

Like that first night, when he returns, Louis is still lying in the same spot, the same position, except there’s dappled moonlight crawling over his skin and Harry can imagine handprints etched into his hips.

He’s so utterly beautiful.

Louis lets Harry wipe him clean, and they lie back against the pillows at the headboard, sheets kicked to the end of the bed and the sound of the others shifting beneath them, snatches of conversation and laughter that might as well be a world away.

It doesn’t take much to pull Louis in by the waist, mouths meeting somewhere in the middle, so soft and yielding. Harry’s hand fits into the low dip of Louis’ back, the other curving at his cheek, and Louis is supple, naked skin and radiating heat, and Harry is gone, gone, with each slow twist of their bodies, curling closer.

Eventually, slow kisses turn into slow breaths. Louis lays his head against Harry’s shoulder. He sprawls an arm across Harry’s stomach and looks up at him with gradually fading clarity, sleep tucking itself under his skin.

“Hey,” Harry says into the quiet and dark. Because this night will end, but not yet, not yet. 

Their friends’ laughter echoes downstairs, and the night falls blue-black and lovely upon their warm bodies, and Harry thinks of all the secrets that are ready to tumble out of his mouth and all that he wants to ask for in return. 

“Tell me something about yourself,” he tries. “Just one thing.”

For a moment, Harry thinks he’s fallen asleep. But then Louis turns his stubbled cheek into his chest. Rests his teeth just over Harry’s heart.

“I think,” he says. “I might just miss you.”

*

While Harry was sleeping, Louis must have turned on the fan, because he wakes to the gentle whirring of blades and cold toes, and Louis no longer pressed sweetly along his body.

They’ve turned away from each other during the night, and when Harry’s eyes focus through the grit of sleep, he’s greeted with Louis’ bare back, all snaked spine and the blessed valley of his waist, and the unshared sheets rumpled around his legs, just showing the pale skin of his arse.

For a moment it’s like there has been a schism in time that’s been stitched up all wrong; a time skip or an amnesic fracturing. Because there’s this naked boy beside him. In a warm house, under worn-in sheets. And there’s a feeling — that stirring in his chest — strong enough to have been planted there months ago, years even, maybe millennia. Or maybe, it was just at the turn of this changing season.

He places a kiss to the mussed hair at the back of Louis’ head and then heads to the bathroom, before finding his pants and treading quietly down the stairs.

The kitchen is devoid of people, but there’s a mess of bottles and crisp packets strewn across the counter and a following trail of ants, and there’s steam coming out of the kettle, telling him he’s not the only one up. He makes himself a cup of tea, some Lady Grey found stashed in one of the cupboards behind the Orange Pekoe and Russian Caravan, refilling the kettle for another cup, and slips out of the sliding door onto the dew-tipped grass and into the startling brightness of the risen sun.

The day has awoken picturesque. Harry sits down on the two-seater, chairs still scattered haphazard all over the lawn, and watches the sun climbing through the sky between the thin branches of the Carpentaria palms, the solid African Mahogany, and the striking red blooms of the Poinciana tree, burning white and gold through the leaves. The clouds are mere wisps amidst the pale, washed-out blue, more like the ghosts of clouds, and it makes yesterday’s sudden storm seem like nothing but a strange hallucination; just another displaced, ephemeral moment.

Despite the sun, the air sits cool on his skin, and he holds the mug between his palms and the bitter citrus on his tongue. It doesn’t feel like an ending. He’s not sure what it does feel like — something like waking up in the morning on school holidays and watching cartoons on telly with Gemma in their bathrobes, or that time his step-dad took him to that one Man U game and they went for fish and chips after — but it doesn’t even feel close to an end. Not with the sun, rising, so unaware, like this.

The sliding door opens behind him, and then the canvas of the chair is dipping precariously as Leigh-Anne sits herself beside him. He looks down at her, her tired eyes and unkempt hair and mug in hand, and wraps an arm around her, drawing her close against him.

“Thought it was you,” she says softly. “I don’t think I know anyone else that drinks Lady Grey tea.”

“It reminds me of my mum,” Harry says, and Leigh-Anne curls a hand around his knee.

“You going to see her when you get back?” she asks, and he hasn’t thought about it, but now the thought brings a sudden longing, and he finds himself answering, “Yeah, maybe. Maybe on the weekend.”

They sit in silence with their tea, Harry rubbing an absent pattern into Leigh-Anne’s shoulder, and the goosebumps prickling his skin slowly warming with the air around them. There’s a noise behind them, someone trudging into the kitchen, and all Harry can think of is that there’s a home here. A home, real and sincere, however temporary.

“I don’t want to go back,” Leigh-Anne murmurs into Harry’s chest. “It’s so silly. It’s just a holiday, I don’t know why it feels so _big_.”

Harry kisses the top of her head. “It’s not silly. No one’s ever said there’s a right way to feel.”

“What are you talking about? People are always saying there’s a right way to feel,” Leigh-Anne says, and Harry has to laugh.

The tea drains slowly from their cups, and soon after, Harry hears an “Oi,” behind them.

“Hey, no naked cuddling with my girl,” Liam says, coming around, and he looks rested and relaxed, bare chested and faux hawk curling at the ends. He appears less boyish somehow — more solid, more stable — and suddenly Harry can see what Leigh-Anne might have meant about him being _good_.

“Excuse you,” Leigh-Anne says, but there’s no bite there, words coated with honeyed warmth as she eyes him up. “I belong to no man, don’t you know? You’ve got a lot to learn, Liam Payne.”

“You’ve got a lot to teach me,” he counters, and it’s so pleased, so glad, and she smiles up at him, wide and slow, cat’s eyes crinkling, and he smiles back with something like awe.

Harry knows when he’s no longer needed, so he kisses Leigh-Anne’s hair once more, untangles his arm and stands up carefully, letting Liam slip into his place. They already fit together so well.

Before he can walk away, she grabs his hand and says, “Do you want to head back to the hotel together later? Our flight’s at five, I think. I’ll buzz you?”

Harry takes a deep breath. “Yeah,” he says, and it comes out pinched. “Yeah, sounds good.”

When Harry slips back into the house, he sees the other boys have come down, Niall already having taken charge of frying up some eggs and the last of the sausages from last night, and Zayn sweeping the empty bottles on the counter into a recycling bin.

Ed’s at the radio, twisting the dial until the familiar strummed chords of _Throw Your Arms Around Me_ sound through, and Harry pauses in the entrance and they share a look over the counter, and there’s recognition there and something that’s not an end within reach, and then Ed is grinning and nodding towards the stairs. The chorus hooks him somewhere in gut, and when Harry heads back up, the lyrics trail behind him like an echo, like a ghost, tendrils of vapour in a pale blue sky.

Louis is sat up on the edge of the bed when he walks in. There’s a furrow between his brows and his boxers are clutched in his hand.

“I thought—” he says, and Harry shakes his head and kneels at the altar of his feet, just like that first night. Holds his calves and kisses at his thighs.

“What are you doing?” Louis says quietly. Harry mouths at the warm, smooth skin, and Louis cards his fingers through rough curls, tangling them at the nape of Harry’s neck. “Harry?”

Harry presses a kiss into the bruise already marring the soft patch of skin, and then drags his teeth along the line of muscles, biting gently into the flesh. He sucks at the salty sweetness of him, tongue laving across the smooth expanse, and lips smearing wet. Louis tenses, his calf muscles hard under Harry’s fingers, and Harry loves that, with his softness, so undefined, and all that wiry sinew and bone beneath, and he sinks his teeth in until he thinks he can feel the vein and artery pulsing below.

Curling his fingers into Louis’ knees, Harry nuzzles into thickness of his thighs, barely-there stubble scratching through the golden hairs. He hears Louis’ breath hitch above him, and Louis’ fingers tighten their hold and draw him closer to his body, Harry willingly sinking forward into the paler flesh. Louis’ cock brushes against his cheek, half hard and so pink, and Harry’s lips rest over the base, coarse hair at his chin and eyes slipping closed. There’s the scent of sex overlaying that hot laundry-dry grass-lavender-barley smell, and Harry wants to swallow him down; rest him on the tip of his tongue and slide him sweetly down his throat until he hits that ache — that sticking lump. But.

“No,” Louis says, still so quiet. “Come here.” And when Harry opens his eyes, they meet Louis’ and his irises are fractured in green and gold, and there’s not a single trace of cloud within them.

Back uncurling from where he’s tucked himself into Louis’ body, Harry stretches up, hands still slotted into the warm space behind Louis’ knees, and reaches for his waiting mouth. Louis is taller than Harry like this, perched on the bed, and Harry’s head falls back as he kisses him, his warm mouth and tongue splitting the seam of Louis’ lips, licking into his mouth as gentle as taking communion.

Louis’ cheeks are rougher than last night, stubble thicker and coarser as they graze Harry’s cheeks, and it feels grounding, feels _real_ ; enough to make the parting of his jaw slow and gnawing, and for his eyebrows to pinch together as he chases Louis’ fleeting kisses. He catches Louis’ bottom lip between his own, and slips the soft wet of their tongues between catching teeth, and when Louis’ breath comes like a whimper, he pulls Louis forward until his thighs, mottled and fine, wrap themselves around Harry’s waist, and hot skin presses close enough for each sweet sound to release directly into the echoing cavern of his chest.

Harry’s hands slide up the length of Louis’ thighs and settle at the bare skin of his arse, and careful as can be, hitches Louis along the bed, gentling him supine. He quickly discards his boxers and crawls over him, slipping between his legs, and when he kisses him, Louis’ fingers press into the nape of his neck and Louis meets him, measure for measure, until his own mouth and tongue are tinged with orange and bergamot.

Gripping onto the skin of his arse, Harry spreads his cheeks apart, massaging into the firmness, and Louis groans, arching his exquisite back, despite or because of yesterday's ache, and fuck, he _wants_ , he wants so much. Wants a thorough undoing, wants something unassailable, wants something forever.

Harry ruts down in a slow, controlled motion, his cock sliding along Louis' and already hard with need, and Louis' head tips back into the bed, a whimpered gasp caught somewhere in his throat. The sound draws his lips, and he mouths along the hollow of it, the sharp bones and the heady salt skin, counting victories with every pretty little whine.

Sucking a dark mark into the underside of Louis' jaw like the dirtiest tattoo, Harry tries to hold on as Louis twists under him, the tip of his cock smearing wet between their stomachs, the barest friction nearly unbearable.

And then, so compelled to map every inch of sun-kissed skin, Harry moves even lower and laps at Louis’ nipple with his tongue, flicking it lightly.

A startled mewl leaves Louis’ mouth, and Harry asks, “Yeah?” breathing hot air against the wet skin.

Louis sighs and it’s a shiver, reverberating through his body. “Yeah,” he says.

Harry’s mouth returns to his right nipple, gliding his tongue over it again, before teasing it between his teeth, the nub already pert and blushed red. His fingers find the other, brushing across it lightly and then tweaking it, only just this side of hard. It causes a muted noise to escape Louis’ mouth, and Harry never knew there could be so much need in such a small sound.

He alternates between rubbing down and then thumbing over the hard nub, and Louis’ breath catches between each movement, the cave of his ribs swelling and releasing like waves. When Harry looks down he can see the ruby red of skin pinched tight, pulled and licked until shiny with spit, and illuminated under streams of daylight.

Louis’ hand trails up the back of Harry neck, fisting loosely in the long waves, and Harry looks up to hooded eyes and parted, bitten lips.

“Yeah?” he says again, and Louis threads his fingers through the strands, already damp with sweat, and it’s like he’s anchoring himself; knotting them together.

“Yeah.”

His breaths turn into a moan when Harry switches sides, moulding his lips around the other nipple and sucking gently. The wet from Harry’s mouth makes it easier to twist his right bud between his thumb and forefinger, turning it like a dial until it’s puffy and bright red from the attention, and so every touch is sure to come with the slight sting of sensitivity.

A small hum of pleasure releases from Harry’s mouth, adding to the rustling pull of the sheets against his knees and toes when he jerks his cock against Louis’ thigh, and Louis moans, desperate and keening. Louis’ hips begin rutting in a stuttered rhythm against Harry’s chest, and it makes his teeth catch at Louis’ skin with each jerky movement, but he only holds Harry close. Louis’ nails scrape along his scalp and he holds him close.

And then, Louis is tugging sharp enough at Harry’s hair to make him whine, and he pulls himself over Louis’ chest once more, cock sliding pre-come down his stomach. Harry kisses Louis hard, his hips immediately grinding down slowly in a rough groan of pleasure and his hands palming at Louis’ ribs, waist, arse, hips, every marvellous part of him within reach.

His tongue licks into Louis’ mouth quick and deep until Louis’ whimpers turn into words, except it’s just _Harry, Harry_ , thin and stretched, like he’s already coming undone, just as helplessly.

Reluctantly, slowly, Harry pulls away. “Hey, I’ve got you,” he says, voice low, nudging a kiss against Louis’ cheek, the corner of his eye. “Going to take good care of you, Lou.”

He takes the lube and one of the condoms that has been scattered along the floor from Louis’ search the night before, and when he turns back Louis is looking right back at him, and there’s a hint of a grin there, revealed in the indent of his flushed cheek.

“What?” Harry says, and he’s already grinning back, an instantaneous reflection.

Louis shakes his head, lets out a quiet laugh. “I was just thinking,” he says, and when Harry raises an eyebrow, he adds, “About me making bad decisions.”

“Yeah?” Harry says, kneeling back over Louis, elbows caging him on either side of his head. Harry’s hair falls over Louis’ face, and he shakes it a little until Louis’ nose screws up and he pushes him away with another laugh.

“ _Yes_ ,” Louis says, fingers trailing back through Harry’s hair, until it’s all caught up at the top like a Tokyo fountain.

Harry crosses his eyes, and Louis rolls his in response, and somehow the light washing over them is as vivid and as warm as any other sepia-toned memory.

“Is this one of them?” Harry asks. “One of your bad decisions?”

Tugging at Harry’s hair, Louis shakes his head, and when he smiles, Harry thinks that the crinkles by his eyes might just be the best kind of keepsake.

“Nah,” Louis says. “You’re definitely not the worst choice I’ve ever made, Styles.”

Harry looks down at him, into sky-born cloudless blue eyes, and he feels both calm and centred and like he’s caught in the middle of a hurricane. And it might be here, this place and this time, but more than that, this boy, and maybe always, wherever, whenever, _this boy_.

There’s a grin on his face, helpless and irrepressible, when Harry attacks Louis’ neck and digs his fingers into his sides, and Louis laughs and shrieks and only ever squirms closer into his hold.

They stretch out on the bed, still parallel to the headboard, and through gasped laughter and kisses that are more smile than anything else, Harry opens him up, slow and wary of the night before, and Louis’ leg is hitched over Harry’s waist and his fingers still tangled in his hair.

When Louis stretches out on his stomach, all tanned and lovely and feet dangling over the edge of the bed, Harry bites at the lily-white skin of his arse and presses his mouth between his shoulder blades. And when he settles over Louis’ lovely small body, he grips his wrists, thumbs sliding along the veins like they could tie him to the ground.

One hand helping to guide his cock, Harry sinks into the smooth warmth, already so attuned to how Louis’ body arches and writhes beneath him, taking him in so well, and the firm of Louis’ arse presses against his hips, his thighs, accentuating the dip above the sweet curve.

He clutches at his waist, the other hand still holding Louis’ wrists, and he rolls his hips, cock dipping into soft heat, then pulling back and then entering him again, Louis gasping into the sheets with each terrific movement. The drag, the friction between the walls, has Harry moaning into Louis’ shoulder, and he shoves in again a little rougher, a little more desperate, before pulling out to nearly the tip and fucking in deeply. Louis’ shoulder blades squeeze together and his knuckles whiten where they grip at the sheets.

“Fuck, fuck, _Harry_ ,” Louis says, almost a cry, and Harry soothes him with kisses along the back of his neck and the hinge of his jaw, and into the fine, sweat-sticky hair plastered to his temple.

“So good, Lou,” Harry groans, even as his knees dig into the mattress, and he picks up his pace. “ _God_ , so, so good for me, Lou.”

Louis turns his face into the hook of his arm, mouth falling open in gasping breaths, and eyes screwed shut, trying to move within Harry’s hold, trying to meet his thrusts, his cock dragging against the sheets, wetting the cotton.

“Fuck, _please_ , Harry,” he says, voice rough and words strung together with unravelling thread, and Harry pulls Louis’ hips up and moulds his body over Louis’ like an eclipsing shadow, snapping in relentlessly, ceaselessly, chasing down his orgasm.

His lips find Louis’, turning Louis’ neck until it stretches up so pretty, and Louis’ hand grips at the back of Harry’s head, pulling him in like he’s emitting life-giving oxygen; like he could lick his mouth clean of it, and Harry there, lungs willing.

He’s so beautiful. The most beautiful thing Harry’s ever seen, he’s sure now, more than all those coral-red sunsets and the ochre-red earth, and Harry thinks he could watch him come apart forever, with those red-bitten lips and his flushed-red skin, and the white-hot of his breath falling across Harry’s mouth.

Louis’ eyes are bright and wet when they open, and Harry says, “Are you going to come, babe? Going to come for me, yeah?” and Louis whimpers and turns his face into the sheets again, rutting back onto his cock, frantic and unrestrained. He comes then, spurting messily onto the bed and the echoes of his orgasm shudder across Harry’s chest and stomach and sink into his skin.

With Louis’ muscles clenching tightly around his length and rhythm faltering, Harry fucks in desperately until his own orgasm crashes through his body, waves of arousal coursing through his burning chest and pulsing cock and straining thighs. Harry buries his face into the back of Louis’ neck, his hand still squeezing painfully at Louis’ hip, and he rocks them together like a boat on water, and he feels everything and nothing and only _Louis, Louis_.

When his orgasm subsides, he rests there, cock buried in that perfect heat, until Louis wriggles uncomfortably underneath him.

“Get off me,” Louis says, but it sounds soft and fond.

“Get you off?” Harry says, teasing. “Think I already did that.” 

Louis groans, elbowing him, and Harry lets him roll them both onto their sides, carefully slipping out.

Despite the heat permeating the room and seeping from their own bodies, Harry wraps his arms around Louis’ body, sweat sticking them together. The sunlight glints golden off the tips of Louis’ hair, and there’s a breeze calling quietly at the window pane, and aligned beneath their skin, their hearts slowly calm to steady beat.

“So. _Good morning_ ,” he says suddenly, and Louis laughs, loud and brazen and chest shaking.

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Louis says. He links their hands over his stomach, and Harry smiles, inexorable, into soft, damp skin.

*

Later, sprawled on the bed over a breakfast of cold eggs and sausages on toast, Louis says, “The Police or the Clash?”

“The Clash,” Harry says around a mouthful of toast. “Red wine or white wine?”

Louis screws up his face. “Whatever goes with dessert. Ibiza or Tokyo?”

“Tokyo, but depends on the company. _Star Wars_ or _Star Trek_?”

Beside them, Harry’s phone buzzes from where it’s charging on the bedside table.

And around them, the change, the build up, gathers electric in the atmosphere.

**Author's Note:**

> Although they are _very_ hidden and no one sees them, the scene does take place in a public area where children are present.
> 
> Also, [Hi :D](http://onewasturning.tumblr.com/)


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